MISS  MINKS 
SOLDIER 

AND  OTHER  STORIES 


ALICE  HEGAN  RICE 


MISS  MINK'S  SOLDIER 

AND  OTHER  STORIES 


Then   Miss   Mink   received   a   shock 


MISS   MINK'S  SOLDIER 

AND  OTHER  STORIES 


BY 

ALICE  HEGAN  RICE 

Author  of  "Mas.  WIGOS  OF  THE  CABBAGE  PATCH," 
"MR.  OPP,"  "CALVARY  ALLEY,"  ETC. 


NEW  YORK 
THE  CENTURY  CO. 

1918 


Copyright,  1905,  1906,  1910,  1918,  by 
THE  CENTURY  Co. 

Copyright,  1914,  by 
THB  Csowcu.  PUBLISHINO  COMPANI 

Published,  October,  1918 


•*• 


TO 

THE  LADY  OF  THE  DECORATION 

A  MEMENTO  OF  MANY  HAPPY  DAYS 
SPENT  TOGETHER  "EAST  OF  SUEZ" 


CONTENTS 


PAGE 

Miss  MINK'S  SOLDIER 3 

A  DARLING  OP  MISFORTUNE 33 

"Pop"        .     .     i    x 59 

HOODOOED 91 

A  MATTER  OP  FRIENDSHIP 121 

THE  WILD  OATS  OF  A  SPINSTER 147 

CUPID  GOES  SLUMMING 177 

THE  SOUL  OP  O  SANA  SAN  .  209 


MISS  MINK'S  SOLDIER 


MISS  MINK'S  SOLDIER 

MISS  MINK  sat  in  church  with  lips  com- 
pressed and  hands  tightly  clasped  in  her 
black  alpaca  lap,  and  stubbornly  refused  to  com- 
ply with  the  request  that  was  being  made  from 
the  pulpit.  She  was  a  small  desiccated  person, 
with  a  sharp  chin  and  a  sharper  nose,  and  nar- 
row faded  eyes  that  through  the  making  of  in- 
numerable buttonholes  had  come  to  resemble 
them. 

For  over  forty  years  she  had  sat  in  that  same 
pew  facing  that  same  minister,  regarding  him 
second  only  to  his  Maker,  and  striving  in 
thought  and  deed  to  follow  his  precepts.  But 
the  time  had  come  when  Miss  Mink's  blind 
allegiance  wavered. 

Ever  since  the  establishment  of  the  big  Can- 
tonment near  the  city,  Dr.  Morris,  in  order  to 
encourage  church  attendance,  had  been  insistent 
in  his  request  that  every  member  of  his  congre- 

3 


MISS  MINK'S  SOLDIER 

gation  should  take  a  soldier  home  to  Sunday 
dinner. 

Now  it  was  no  lack  of  patriotism  that  made 
Miss  Mink  refuse  to  do  her  part.  Every  ripple 
in  the  small  flag  that  fluttered  over  her  humble 
dwelling  sent  a  corresponding  ripple  along  her 
spinal  column.  When  she  essayed  to  sing  "My 
Country,  'T  is  of  Thee,"  in  her  high,  quavering 
soprano,  she  invariably  broke  down  from  sheer 
excess  of  emotion.  But  the  American  army 
fighting  for  right  and  freedom  in  France,  and 
the  Army  individually  tracking  mud  into  her 
spotless  cottage,  were  two  very  different  things. 
Miss  Mink  had  always  regarded  a  man  in  her 
house  much  as  she  regarded  a  gnat  in  her  eye. 
There  was  but  one  course  to  pursue  in  either 
case — elimination ! 

But  her  firm  stand  in  the  matter  had  not  been 
maintained  without  much  misgiving.  Every 
Sunday  when  Dr.  Morris  made  his  earnest  ap- 
peal, something  within  urged  her  to  comply. 
She  was  like  an  automobile  that  gets  cranked 
up  and  then  refuses  to  go.  Church-going  in- 
stead of  being  her  greatest  joy  came  to  be  a 

4 


MISS  MINK'S  SOLDIER 

nightmare.  She  no  longer  lingered  in  the  vesti- 
bule, for  those  highly  cherished  exchanges  of 
inoffensive  gossip  that  constituted  her  social 
life.  Nobody  seemed  to  have  time  for  her. 
Every  one  was  busy  with  a  soldier.  Within 
the  sanctuary  it  was  no  better.  Each  khaki-clad 
figure  that  dotted  the  congregation  claimed  her 
attention  as  a  possible  candidate  for  hospitality. 
And  each  one  that  presented  himself  to  her 
vision  was  indignantly  repudiated.  One  was 
too  old,  another  too  young,  one  too  stylish,  an- 
other had  forgotten  to  wash  his  ears.  She 
found  a  dozen  excuses  for  withholding  her  invi- 
tation. 

But  this  morning  as  she  sat  upright  and  un- 
compromising in  her  short  pew,  she  was  sud- 
denly thrown  into  a  state  of  agitation  by  the 
appearance  in  the  aisle  of  an  un-ushered  sol- 
dier who,  after  hesitating  beside  one  or  two 
pews,  slipped  into  the  seat  beside  her.  It 
seemed  almost  as  if  Providence  had  taken  a 
hand  and  since  she  had  refused  to  select  a  sol- 
dier, had  prompted  a  soldier  to  select  her. 

During  the  service  she  sat  gazing  straight  at 
5 


MISS  MINK'S  SOLDIER 

the  minister  without  comprehending  a  word 
that  he  said.  Never  once  did  her  glance  stray 
to  that  khaki-clad  figure  beside  her,  but  her 
thoughts  played  around  him  like  lightning. 
What  if  she  should  get  up  her  courage  and  ask 
him  to  dinner,  how  would  she  ever  be  able  to 
walk  out  the  street  with  him?  And  once  she 
had  got  him  to  her  cottage,  what  on  earth  would 
she  talk  to  him  about?  Her  hands  grew  cold  as 
she  thought  about  it.  Yet  something  warned 
her  it  was  now  or  never,  and  that  it  was  only  by 
taking  the  hated  step  and  getting  it  over  with, 
that  she  could  regain  the  peace  of  mind  that  had 
of  late  deserted  her. 

The  Doxology  found  her  weakening,  but  the 
Benediction  stiffened  her  resolve,  and  when  the 
final  Amen  sounded,  she  turned  blindly  to  the 
man  beside  her,  and  said,  hardly  above  her 
breath : 

"If  you  ain't  got  any  place  to  go  to  dinner, 
you  can  come  home  with  me." 

The  tall  figure  turned  toward  her,  and  a  pair 
of  melancholy  brown  eyes  looked  down  into 
hers: 

6 


MISS  MINK'S  SOLDIER 

'  *  You  will  excuse  if  I  do  not  quite  compre- 
hend your  meaning/'  he  said  politely,  witk  a 
strong  foreign  accent. 

Miss  Mink  was  plunged  into  instant  panic; 
suppose  he  was  a  German?  Suppose  she 
should  be  convicted  for  entertaining  a  spy! 
Then  she  remembered  his  uniform  and  was 
slightly  reassured. 

"I  said  would  you  come  home  to  dinner  with 
me?"  she  repeated  weakly,  with  a  fervent 
prayer  that  he  would  decline. 

But  the  soldier  had  no  such  intention.  He 
bowed  gravely,  and  picked  up  his  hat  and  over- 
coat. 

Miss  Mink,  looking  like  a  small  tug  towing  a 
big  steamer,  shamefacedly  made  her  way  to  the 
nearest  exit,  and  got  him  out  through  the  Sun- 
day-school room.  She  would  take  him  home 
through  a  side  street,  feed  him  and  send  him 
away  as  soon  as  possible.  It  was  a  horrible 
ordeal,  but  Miss  Mink  was  not  one  to  turn  back 
once  she  had  faced  a  difficult  situation.  As  they 
passed  down  the  broad  steps  into  the  brilliant 
October  sunshine,  she  noticed  with  relief  that 

7 


MISS  MINK'S  SOLDIER 

his  shoes  were  not  muddy.  Then,  before  she 
could  make  other  observations,  her  mind  was 
entirely  preoccupied  with  a  large,  firm  hand 
that  grasped  her  elbow,  and  seemed  to  half  lift 
her  slight  weight  from  step  to  step.  Miss 
Mink's  elbow  was  not  used  to  such  treatment 
and  it  indignantly  freed  itself  before  the  pave- 
ment was  reached.  The  first  square  was  trav- 
eled in  embarrassed  silence,  then  Miss  Mink 
made  a  heroic  effort  to  break  the  ice : 

"My  name  is  Mink,"  she  said,  "Miss  Libby 
Mink.  I  do  dress-making  over  on  Sixth  Street. ' ' 

"I  am  Bowinski,"  volunteered  her  tall  com- 
panion, "first  name  Alexis.  I  am  a  machinist 
before  I  enlist  in  the  army." 

"I  knew  you  were  some  sort  of  a  Dago,"  said 
Miss  Mink. 

"But  no,  Madame,  I  am  Russian.  My  home 
is  in  Kiev  in  Ukrania." 

"Why  on  earth  didn't  you  stay  there?"  Miss 
Mink  asked  from  the  depths  of  her  heart. 

The  soldier  looked  at  her  earnestly.  "Be- 
cause of  the  persecution, ' '  he  said.  '  '  My  father 
he  was  in  exile.  His  family  was  suspect.  I 

8 


MISS  MINK'S  SOLDIER 

come  alone  to  America  when  I  am  but  fifteen." 

""Well  I  guess  you're  sorry  enough  now  that 
you  came,"  Miss  Mink  said,  "Now  that  you've 
got  drafted." 

They  had  reached  her  gate  by  this  time,  but 
Bowinski  paused  before  entering:  "Madame 
mistakes!"  he  said  with  dignity.  "I  was  not 
drafted.  The  day  America  enter  the  war, 
that  day  I  give  up  my  job  I  have  held  for  five 
years,  and  enlist.  America  is  my  country,  she 
take  me  in  when  I  have  nowhere  to  go.  It  is 
my  proud  moment  when  I  fight  for  her!" 

Then  it  was  that  Miss  Mink  took  her  first  real 
look  at  him,  and  if  it  was  a  longer  look  than  she 
had  ever  before  bestowed  upon  man,  we  must 
put  it  down  to  the  fact  that  he  was  well  worth 
looking  at,  with  his  tall  square  figure,  and  his 
serious  dark  face  lit  up  at  the  present  with  a 
somewhat  indignant  enthusiasm. 

Miss  Mink  pushed  open  the  gate  and  led  the 
way  into  her  narrow  yard.  She  usually  en- 
tered the  house  by  way  of  the  side  door  which 
opened  into  the  dining  room,  which  was  also  her 
bedroom  by  night,  and  her  sewing  room  by  day. 

9 


MISS  MINK'S  SOLDIER 

But  this  morning,  after  a  moment's  hesitation, 
she  turned  a  key  in  the  rusty  lock  of  the  front 
door,  and  let  a  flood  of  sunshine  dispel  the 
gloom  of  the  room.  The  parlor  had  been  fur- 
nished by  Miss  Mink's  parents  some  sixty  years 
ago,  and  nothing  had  been  changed.  A  cus- 
tomer had  once  suggested  that  if  the  sofa  was 
taken  away  from  the  window,  and  the  table 
put  in  its  place,  the  room  would  be  lighter. 
Miss  Mink  had  regarded  the  proposition  as 
preposterous.  One  might  as  well  have  asked 
her  to  move  her  nose  around  to  the  back  of  her 
head,  or  to  exchange  the  positions  of  her  eyes 
and  ears ! 

You  have  seen  a  drop  of  water  caught  in  a 
crystal?  Well,  that  was  what  Miss  Mink  was 
like.  She  moved  in  the  tiniest  possible  groove 
with  her  home  at  one  end  and  her  church  at  the 
other.  Is  it  any  wonder  that  when  she  beheld  a 
strange  young  foreigner  sitting  stiffly  on  her 
parlor  sofa,  and  realized  that  she  must  entertain 
him  for  at  least  an  hour,  that  panic  seized  her? 

"I  better  be  seeing  to  dinner,"  she  said 
10 


MISS  MINK'S  SOLDIER 

hastily.  *  "You  can  look  at  the  album  till  I  get 
things  dished  up." 

Private  Bowinski,  surnamed  Alexis,  sat  with 
knees  awkwardly  hunched  and  obediently 
turned  the  leaves  of  the  large  album,  politely 
scanning  the  placid  countenances  of  departed 
Minks  for  several  generations. 

Miss  Mink,  moving  about  in  the  inner  room, 
glanced  in  at  him  from  time  to  time.  After 
the  first  glance  she  went  to  the  small  store  room 
and  got  out  a  jar  of  sweet  pickle,  and  after  the 
second  she  produced  a  glass  of  crab  apple  jelly. 
Serving  a  soldier  guest  who  had  voluntarily 
adopted  her  country,  was  after  all  not  so  dis- 
tasteful, if  only  she  did  not  have  to  talk  to  him. 
But  already  the  coming  ordeal  was  casting  its 
baleful  shadow. 

When  they  were  seated  opposite  one  another 
at  the  small  table,  her  worst  fears  were  realized. 
They  could  neither  of  them  think  of  anything  to 
say.  If  she  made  a  move  to  pass  the  bread  to 
him  he  insisted  upon  passing  it  to  her.  When 
she  rose  to  serve  him,  he  rose  to  serve  her.  She 

11 


MISS  MINK'S  SOLDIER 

had  never  realized  before  how  oppressive  ex- 
cessive politeness  could  be. 

The  one  point  of  consolation  for  her  lay  in  the 
fact  that  he  was  enjoying  his  dinner.  He  ate 
with  a  relish  that  would  have  flattered  any 
hostess.  Sometimes  when  he  put  his  knife  in 
his  mouth  she  winced  with  apprehension,  but 
aside  from  a  few  such  lapses  in  etiquette  he 
conducted  himself  with  solemn  and  punctilious 
propriety. 

When  he  had  finished  his  second  slice  of  pie, 
and  pushed  back  his  chair,  Miss  Mink  waited 
hopefully  for  him  to  say  good-bye.  He  was  evi- 
dently getting  out  his  car  fare  now,  search- 
ing with  thumb  and  forefinger  in  his  vest 
pocket. 

"If  it  is  not  to  trouble  you  more,  may  I  ask 
a  match?"  he  said. 

"A  match?  What  on  earth  do  you  want  with 
a  match? "  demanded  Miss  Mink.  Then  a  look 
of  apprehension  swept  over  her  face.  Was  this 
young  man  actually  proposing  to  profane  the 
virgin  air  of  her  domicile  with  the  fumes  of  to- 
bacco? 

12 


MISS  MINK'S  SOLDIER 

"Perhaps  you  do  not  like  that  I  should 
smoke? "  Bowinski  said  instantly.  "I  beg  you 
excuse,  I — " 

"Oh!  that's  all  right, "  said  Miss  Mink  in  a 
tone  that  she  did  not  recognize  as  her  own,  "the 
matches  are  in  that  little  bisque  figure  on  the 
parlor  mantel.  I'll  get  you  to  leave  the  front 
door  open,  if  you  don 't  mind.  It  's  kinder  hot  in 
here." 

Five  o'clock  that  afternoon  found  Miss  Mink 
and  Alexis  Bowinski  still  sitting  facing  each 
other  in  the  front  parlor.  They  were  mutually 
exhausted,  and  conversation  after  having  suf- 
fered innumerable  relapses,  seemed  about  to 
succumb. 

"If  there's  any  place  else  you  want  to  go,  you 
mustn't  feel  that  you've  got  to  stay  here,"  Miss 
Mink  had  urged  some  time  after  dinner.  But 
Alexis  had  answered: 

"I  know  only  two  place.  The  Camp  and  the 
railway  depot.  I  go  on  last  Sunday  to  the  rail- 
way depot.  The  Chaplain  at  the  Camp  advise 
me  I  go  to  church  this  morning.  Perhaps  I 
make  a  friend." 

13 


MISS  MINK'S  SOLDIER 

"But  what  do  the  other  soldiers  do  on  Sun- 
day I"  Miss  Mink  asked  desperately. 

"They  promenade.  Always  promenade.  Ex- 
cept they  go  to  photo-plays,  and  dance  hall.  It 
is  the  hard  part  of  war,  the  waiting  part. ' ' 

Miss  Mink  agreed  with  him  perfectly  as  she 
helped  him  wait.  She  had  never  spent  such  a 
long  day  in  her  life.  At  a  quarter  past  five 
he  rose  to  go.  A  skillful  word  on  her  part 
would  have  expedited  matters,  but  Miss 
Mink  was  not  versed  in  the  social  trick  of 
speeding  a  departing  guest.  Fifteen  minutes 
dragged  their  weary  length  even  after  he  was 
on  his  feet.  Then  Miss  Mink  received  a  shock 
from  which  it  took  her  an  even  longer  time  to 
recover.  Alexis  Bowinski,  having  at  last  ar- 
rived at  the  moment  of  departure,  took  her  hand 
in  his  and,  bowing  awkwardly,  raised  it  to  his 
lips  and  kissed  it!  Then  he  backed  out  of  the 
cottage,  stalked  into  the  twilight  and  was  soon 
lost  to  sight  beyond  the  hedge. 

Miss  Mink  sank  limply  on  the  sofa  by  the  win- 
dow, and  regarded  her  small  wrinkled  hand 
with  stern  surprise.  It  was  a  hand  that  had 

14 


MISS  MINK'S  SOLDIEB 

mever  been  kissed  before  and  it  was  tingling 
in  the  strangest  and  most  unaccountable  man- 
ner. 

The  following  week  was  lived  in  the  after- 
glow of  that  eventful  Sunday.  She  described 
the  soldier's  visit  in  detail  to  the  few  customers 
who  came  in.  She  went  early  to  prayer-meet- 
ing in  order  to  tell  about  it.  And  in  the  telling 
she  subordinated  everything  to  the  dramatic  cli- 
max: 

"I  never  was  so  took  back  in  my  life!"  she 
said.  "  After  setting  there  for  four  mortal 
hours  with  nothing  to  say,  just  boring  each 
other  to  death,  for  him  to  get  up  like  that  and 
make  a  regular  play-actor  bow,  and  kiss  my 
hand !  Well,  I  never  was  so  took  back ! ' ' 

And  judging  from  the  number  of  times  Miss 
Mink  told  the  story,  and  the  conscious  smile  with 
which  she  concluded  it,  it  was  evident  that  she 
was  not  averse  to  being  "took  back." 

By  the  time  Sunday  arrived  she  had  worked 
herself  up  to  quite  a  state  of  excitement. 
Would  Bowinski  be  at  church?  Would  he  sit 
on  her  side  of  the  congregation?  Would  he 

15 


MISS  MINK'S  SOLDIER 

wait  after  the  service  to  speak  to  her!  She  put 
on  her  best  bonnet,  which  was  usually  reserved 
for  funerals,  and  pinned  a  bit  of  thread  lace 
over  the  shabby  collar  of  her  coat. 

The  moment  she  entered  church  all  doubts 
were  dispelled.  There  in  her  pew,  quite  as  if 
he  belonged  there,  sat  the  tall  young  Russian. 
He  even  stepped  into  the  aisle  for  her  to  pass 
in,  helped  her  off  with  her  coat,  and  found  the 
place  for  her  in  the  hymn-book.  Miss  Mink  real- 
ized with  a  glow  of  satisfaction,  that  many  curi- 
ous heads  were  craning  in  her  direction.  For 
the  first  time  since  she  had  gone  forward  forty 
years  ago  to  confess  her  faith,  she  was  an  ob- 
ject of  interest  to  the  congregation! 

When  the  benediction  was  pronounced  sev- 
eral women  came  forward  ostensibly  to  speak 
to  her,  but  in  reality  to  ask  Bowinski  to  go  home 
to  dinner  with  them.  She  waived  them  all 
aside. 

"No,  he's  going  with  me!"  she  announced 
firmly,  and  Bowinski  obediently  picked  up  his 
Jiat  and  accompanied  her. 

For  the  following  month  this  scene  was  en- 
16 


MISS  MINK'S  SOLDIER 

acted  each  Sunday,  with  little  change  to  out- 
ward appearances  but  with  great  change  to 
Miss  Mink  herself.  In  the  mothering  of  Bow- 
inski  she  had  found  the  great  adventure  of  her 
life.  She  mended  his  clothes,  and  made  fancy 
dishes  for  him,  she  knit  him  everything  that 
could  be  knitted,  including  an  aviator's  helmet 
for  which  he  had  no  possible  use.  She  talked 
about  "my  soldier"  to  any  one  who  would 
listen. 

Bowinski  accepted  her  attention  with  grave 
politeness.  He  wore  the  things  she  made  for 
him,  he  ate  the  things  she  cooked  for  him,  he 
answered  all  her  questions  and  kissed  her  hand 
at  parting.  Miss  Mink  considered  his  behavior 
perfect. 

One  snowy  Sunday  in  late  November  Miss 
Mink  was  thrown  into  a  panic  by  his  failure 
to  appear  on  Sunday  morning.  She  confided 
to  Sister  Bacon  in  the  adjoining  pew  that  she 
was  afraid  he  had  been  sent  to  France.  Sister 
Bacon  promptly  whispered  to  her  husband  that 
he  had  been  sent  to  France,  and  the  rumor 
spread  until  after  church  quite  a  little  group 

17 


MISS  MINK'S  SOLDIER 

gathered  around  Miss  Mink  to  hear  about  it. 

"What  was  his  company ?"  some  one  asked. 

"Company  C,  47th  Infantry, "  Miss  Mink 
repeated  importantly. 

"Why,  that's  my  boy's  company,"  said  Mrs. 
Bacon.  "They  haven't  gone  to  France." 

The  thought  of  her  soldier  being  in  the 
trenches  even,  was  more  tolerable  to  Miss  Mink 
than  the  thought  of  his  being  in  town  and 
failing  to  come  to  her  for  Sunday  dinner. 

"I  bet  he's  sick,"  she  announced.  "I  wish 
I  could  find  out." 

Mrs.  Bacon  volunteered  to  ask  her  Jim  about 
him,  and  three  days  later  stopped  by  Miss 
Mink's  cottage  to  tell  her  that  Bowinski  had 
broken  his  leg  over  a  week  before  and  was  in 
the  Base  Hospital. 

"Can  anybody  go  out  there  that  wants  to?" 
demanded  Miss  Mink. 

"Yes,  on  Sundays  and  Wednesdays.  But 
you  can 't  count  on  the  cars  running  today.  Jim 
says  everything's  snowed  under  two  feet  deep." 

Miss  Mink  held  her  own  counsel  but  she  knew 
what  she  was  going  to  do.  Her  soldier  was 

18 


MISS  MINK'S  SOLDIER 

in  trouble,  he  had  no  family  or  friends.  She 
was  going  to  him. 

With  trembling  fingers  she  packed  a  small 
basket  with  some  apples,  a  jar  of  jelly  and  a 
slice  of  cake.  There  was  no  time  for  her  own 
lunch,  so  she  hurriedly  put  on  her  coat  and 
twisting  a  faded  scarf  about  her  neck  trudged 
out  into  the  blustery  afternoon. 

The  blizzard  of  the  day  before  had  almost 
suspended  traffic,  and  when  she  finally  suc- 
ceeded in  getting  a  car,  it  was  only  to  find  that 
it  ran  no  farther  than  the  city  limits. 

"How  much  farther  is  it  to  the  Camp?"  Miss 
Mink  asked  desperately. 

"About  a  mile,"  said  the  conductor.  "I 
wouldn't  try  it  if  I  was  you,  the  walking's 
fierce. ' ' 

But  Miss  Mink  was  not  to  be  turned  back. 
Gathering  her  skirts  as  high  as  her  sense  of 
propriety  would  permit,  and  grasping  her  bas- 
ket she  set  bravely  forth.  The  trip  alone  to  the 
Camp,  under  the  most  auspicious  circumstances, 
would  have  been  a  trying  ordeal  for  her,  but  un- 
der the  existing  conditions  it  required  nothing 

19 


MISS  MINK'S  SOLDIEE 

less  than  heroism.  The  snow  had  drifted  in 
places  as  high  as  her  knees,  and  again  and  again 
she  stumbled  and  almost  lost  her  footing  as  she 
staggered  forward  against  the  force  of  the  icy 
wind. 

Before  she  had  gone  half  a  mile  she  was  ready 
to  collapse  with  nervousness  and  exhaustion. 

" Looks  like  I  just  can't  make  it,"  she  whim- 
pered, "and  yet  I'm  going  to!" 

The  honk  of  an  automobile  sent  her  shying 
into  a  snowdrift,  and  when  she  caught  her 
breath  and  turned  around  she  saw  that  the  ma- 
chine had  stopped  and  a  hand  was  beckoning  to 
her  from  the  window. 

"May  I  give  you  a  lift?"  asked  a  girl's  high 
sweet  voice  and,  looking  up,  she  saw  a  sparkling 
face  smiling  down  at  her  over  an  upturned  fur 
collar. 

Without  waiting  to  be  urged  she  climbed  into 
the  machine,  stumbled  over  the  rug,  and  sank 
exhausted  on  the  cushions. 

"Give  me  your  basket,"  commanded  the 
young  lady.  * '  Now  put  your  feet  on  the  heater. 
Sure  you  have  room?" 

20 


MISS  MINK'S  SOLDIEE 

Miss  Mink,  still  breathless,  nodded  emphat- 
ically. 

"It's  a  shame  to  ask  anyone  to  ride  when  I'm 
so  cluttered  up,"  continued  the  girl  gaily. 
"I'm  taking  these  things  out  to  my  sick  soldier 
boys." 

Miss  Mink,  looking  down,  saw  that  the  floor  of 
the  machine  was  covered  with  boxes  and  bas- 
kets. 

"I'm  going  to  the  Hospital,  too,"  she  said. 

"That's  good!"  exclaimed  the  girl.  "I  can 
take  you  all  the  way.  Perhaps  you  have  a  son 
or  a  grandson  out  there?" 

Miss  Mink  winced.  "No,  he  ain't  any  kin  to 
me,"  she  said,  "but  I  been  sort  of  looking  after 
him." 

"How  sweet  of  you!"  said  the  pouting  red 
lips  with  embarrassing  ardor.  "Just  think  of 
your  walking  out  here  this  awful  day  at  your 
age.  Quite  sure  you  are  getting  warm?" 

Yes,  Miss  Mink  was  warm,  but  she  felt  sud- 
denly old,  old  and  shrivelled  beside  this  radiant 
young  thing. 

"I  perfectly  adore  going  to  the  hospital,"  said 
21 


MISS  MINK'S  SOLDIEE 

the  girl,  her  blue  eyes  dancing.  "Father's  one 
of  the  medical  directors,  Major  Chalmers,  I  ex- 
pect you  've  heard  of  him.  I  'm  Lois  Chalmers. ' ' 

But  Miss  Mink  was  scarcely  listening.  She 
was  comparing  the  big  luscious  looking  oranges 
in  the  crate,  with  the  hard  little  apples  in  her 
own  basket. 

"Here  we  are!"  cried  Lois,  as  the  car  plowed 
through  the  snow  and  mud  and  stopped  in  front 
of  a  long  shed-like  building.  Two  orderlies 
sprang  forward  with  smiling  alacrity  and  began 
unloading  the  boxes. 

"Aren't  you  the  nicest  ever?"  cried  Lois  with 
a  skillful  smile  that  embraced  them  both. 
"Those  to  the  medical,  those  to  the  surgical, 
and  these  to  my  little  fat-faced  Mumpsies. ' ' 

Miss  Mink  got  herself  and  her  basket  out  un- 
assisted, then  stood  in  doubt  as  to  what  she 
should  do  next.  She  wanted  to  thank  Miss 
Chalmers  for  her  courtesy,  but  two  dapper 
young  officers  had  joined  the  group  around  her 
making  a  circle  of  masculine  admirers. 

Miss  Mink  slipped  away  unnoticed  and  pre- 
22 


MISS  MINK'S  SOLDIER 

seated  herself  at  the  door  marked  "Adminis- 
tration Building. " 

"Can  you  tell  me  where  the  broken-legged 
soldiers  are?"  she  asked  timidly  of  a  man  at  a 
desk. 

"Who  do  you  want  to  see!" 

"Alexis  Bowinski.  He  come  from  Russia. 
He's  got  curly  hair  and  big  sort  of  sad  eyes, 
and—" 

"Bowinski,"  the  man  repeated,  running  his 
finger  down  a  ledger,  "A.  Bowinski,  Surgical 
Ward  5-C.  Through  that  door,  two  corridors 
to  the  right  midway  down  the  second  corridor. ' ' 

Miss  Mink  started  boldly  forth  to  follow  di- 
rections, but  it  was  not  until  she  had  been  ejected 
from  the  X-ray  Room,  the  Mess  Hall,  and  the 
Officers'  Quarters,  that  she  succeeded  in  reach- 
ing her  destination.  By  that  time  her  courage 
was  at  its  lowest  ebb.  On  either  side  of  the 
long  wards  were  cots,  on  which  lay  men  in  vari- 
ous stages  of  undress.  Now  Miss  Mink  had 
seen  pajamas  in  shop  windows,  she  had  even 
made  a  pair  once  of  silk  for  an  ambitious  groom, 

23 


MISS  MINK'S  SOLDIER 

but  this  was  the  first  time  she  had  ever  seen 
them,  as  it  were,  occupied. 

So  acute  was  her  embarrassment  that  she 
might  have  turned  back  at  the  last  moment,  had 
her  eyes  not  fallen  on  the  cot  nearest  the  door. 
There,  lying  asleep,  with  his  injured  leg  sus- 
pended from  a  pulley  from  which  depended  two 
heavy  weights,  lay  Bowinski. 

Miss  Mink  slipped  into  the  chair  between  his 
cot  and  the  wall  After  the  first  glance  at  his 
pale  unshaven  face  and  the  pain-lined  brow,  she 
forgot  all  about  herself.  She  felt  only  over- 
whelming pity  for  him,  and  indignation  at  the 
treatment  to  which  he  was  being  subjected. 

By  and  by  he  stirred  and  opened  his  eyes. 

"Oh  you  came!"  he  said,  "I  mean  you  not  to 
know  I  be  in  hospital  You  must  have  the  kind- 
ness not  to  trouble  about  me." 

"Trouble  nothing,"  said  Miss  Mink,  husky 
with  emotion,  "I  never  knew  a  thing  about  it  un- 
til today.  What  have  they  got  you  harnessed 
up  like  this  for?" 

Then  Alexis  with  difficulty  found  the  English 
words  to  tell  her  how  his  leg  had  not  set  straight, 

24 


MISS  MINK'S  SOLDIER 

had  been  re-broken  and  was  now  being  forced 
into  proper  position. 

"It  is  like  hell,  Madame,"  he  concluded  with 
a  trembling  lip,  then  he  drew  a  sharp  breath, 
"But  no,  I  forget,  I  am  in  the  army.  I  beg  you 
excuse  my  complain." 

Miss  Mink  laid  herself  out  to  entertain  him. 
She  unpacked  her  basket,  and  spread  her  meagre 
offerings  before  him.  She  described  in  detail 
all  the  surgical  operations  she  had  ever  had  any 
experience  with,  following  some  to  their  direst 
consequences.  Alexis  listened  apathetically. 
Now  and  then  a  spasm  of  pain  contracted  his 
face,  but  he  uttered  no  word  of  complaint. 

Only  once  during  the  afternoon  did  his  eyes 
brighten.  Miss  Mink  caught  the  sudden  change 
in  his  expression  and,  following  his  glance,  saw 
Lois  Chalmers  coming  through  the  ward.  She 
had  thrown  aside  her  heavy  fur  coat,  and  her 
slim  graceful  little  figure  as  alert  as  a  bird's 
darted  from  cart  to  cot  as  she  tossed  packages 
of  cigarettes  to  right  and  left. 

"Here  you  are,  Mr.  Whiskers!"  she  was  call- 
ing out  gaily  to  one.  "This  is  for  you,  Colonel 

25 


MISS  MINK'S  SOLDIER 

Collar  Bone.  Where's  Cadet  Limpy?  Dis- 
charged? Good  for  him!  Hello,  Mr.  Strong 
Man ! "  For  a  moment  she  poised  at  the  foot  of 
Bowinski's  cot,  then  recognizing  Miss  Mink  she 
nodded : 

'  *  So  you  found  your  soldier  ?  I  'm  going  back 
to  town  in  ten  minutes,  I'll  take  you  along  if 
you  like." 

She  flitted  out  of  the  ward  as  quickly  as  she 
had  come,  leaving  two  long  rows  of  smiling  faces 
in  her  wake.  She  had  brought  no  pity,  nor 
tenderness,  nor  understanding,  but  she  had 
brought  her  fresh  young  beauty,  and  her  little 
gift  of  gayety,  and  made  men  forget,  at  least 
for  a  moment,  their  pain-racked  bodies  and  their 
weary  brains. 

Miss  Mink  reached  her  cottage  that  night 
weary  and  depressed.  She  had  had  nothing  to 
eat  since  breakfast,  and  yet  was  too  tired  to  pre- 
pare supper.  She  made  her  a  cup  of  tea  which 
she  drank  standing,  and  then  crept  into  bed 
only  to  lie  staring  into  the  darkness  tortured 
by  the  thought  of  those  heavy  weights  on  Bow- 
inski's  injured  leg. 

26 


MISS  MINK'S  SOLDIER 

The  result  of  her  weariness  and  exposure  was 
a  sharp  attack  of  tonsilitis  that  kept  her  in  bed 
several  weeks.  The  first  time  she  was  able  to 
be  up,  she  began  to  count  the  hours  until  the 
next  visiting  day  at  the  Camp.  Her  basket 
was  packed  the  evening  before,  and  placed  be- 
side the  box  of  carnations  in  which  she  had  ex- 
travagantly indulged.  It  is  doubtful  whether 
Miss  Mink  was  ever  so  happy  in  her  life  as  dur- 
ing that  hour  of  pleased  expectancy. 

As  she  moved  feebly  about  putting  the  house 
in  order,  so  that  she  could  make  an  early  start 
in  the  morning,  she  discovered  a  letter  that  the 
Postman  had  thrust  under  the  side  door  earlier 
in  the  day.  Across  the  left  hand  corner  was 
pictured  an  American  flag,  and  across  the  right 
was  a  red  triangle  in  a  circle.  She  hastily  tore 
off  the  envelop  and  read: 

Dear  Mrs.  Mink: 

I  am  out  the  Hospital,  getting  along  fine.  Hope 
you  are  in  the  same  circumstances.  I  am  sending  you 
a  book  which  I  got  from  a  Dear  Young  Lady,  in  the 
Hospital.  I  really  do  not  know  what  to  call  her  be- 
cause I  do  not  know  her  name,  but  I  know  she  deserve 
a  nice,  nice  name  for  all  good  She  dose  to  all  soldiers. 

27 


MISS  MINK'S  SOLDIER 

I  think  she  deserve  more  especially  from  me  than  to 
call  her  a  Sweet  Dear  Lady,  because  that  I  have  the 
discouragement,  and  she  make  me  tt  laugh  and  take 
heart.  I  would  ask  your  kind  favor  to  please  pass 
the  book  back  to  the  Young  Lady,  and  pleas  pass  my 
thankful  word  to  her,  and  if  you  might  be  able  to  send 
me  her  name  before  that  I  go  to  France,  which  I  learn 
is  very  soon.  Excuse  all  errors  if  you  pleas  will. 
This  is  goodby  from 

Your  soldier  friend, 

A.  BOWINSKI. 

Miss  Mink  read  the  letter  through,  then  she 
sat  down  limply  in  a  kitchen  chair  and  stared 
at  the  stove.  Twice  she  half  rose  to  get  the  pen 
and  ink  on  the  shelf  above  the  coal  box,  but 
each  time  she  changed  her  mind,  folded  her 
arms  indignantly,  and  went  back  to  her  stern 
contemplation  of  the  stove.  Presently  a  tear 
rolled  down  her  cheek,  then  another,  and  an- 
other until  she  dropped  her  tired  old  face  in 
her  tired  old  hands,  and  gave  a  long  silent  sob 
that  shook  her  slight  body  from  head  to  foot. 
Then  she  rose  resolutely  and  sweeping  the  back 
of  her  hand  across  her  eyes,  took  down  her  writ- 
ing materials.  On  one  side  of  a  post  card  she 
wrote  the  address  of  Alexis  Bowinski,  and  on 

28 


MISS  MINK'S  SOLDIER 

the  other  she  penned  in  her  cramped  neat  writ- 
ing, one  line : 

"Her  name  is  Lois  Chalmers.  Hotel  Le- 
Koy." 

This  done  she  unpacked  her  basket,  put  her 
half  dozen  carnations  in  a  tumbler  of  water 
and  carried  them  into  the  dark  parlor,  pulled 
her  chair  up  to  the  kitchen  table,  drew  the  lamp 
closer  and  patiently  went  back  to  her  button- 
holes. 


29 


A  DAELING  OF  MISFORTUNE 


A  DARLING  OF  MISFORTUNE 

A  SHABBY  but  joyous  citizen  of  the  world 
at  large  was  Mr.  Phelan  Harrihan,  as, 
with  a  soul  wholly  in  tune  with  the  finite,  he  half 
sat  and  half  reclined  on  a  baggage-truck  at  Leb- 
anon Junction.  He  was  relieving  the  tedium 
of  his  waiting  moments  by  entertaining  a  crit- 
ical if  not  fastidious  audience  of  three. 

Beside  him,  with  head  thrust  under  his  ragged 
sleeve,  sat  a  small  and  unlovely  bull-terrier, 
who,  at  each  fresh  burst  of  laughter,  lifted  a 
pair  of  languishing  eyes  to  the  face  of  his  mas- 
ter, and  then  manifested  his  surplus  affection 
by  ardently  licking  the  buttons  on  the  sleeve  of 
the  arm  that  encircled  him. 

It  was  a  moot  question  whether  Mr.  Harri- 
han resembled  his  dog,  or  whether  his  dog  re- 
sembled him.  That  there  was  a  marked  simi- 
larity admitted  of  no  discussion.  If  Corp's 
nose  had  been  encouraged  and  his  lower  jaw 

33 


A  DARLING  OF  MISFORTUNE 

suppressed,  if  his  intensely  emotional  nature 
had  been  under  better  control,  and  his  senti- 
mentality tempered  with  humor,  the  analogy 
would  have  been  more  complete.  In  taste,  they 
were  one.  By  birth,  predilection,  and  instinct 
both  were  philosophers  of  the  open,  preferring 
an  untrammeled  life  in  Vagabondia  to  the  col- 
lars and  conventions  of  society.  Both  delighted 
in  exquisite  leisure,  and  spent  it  in  pleased  ac- 
quiescence with  things  as  they  are. 

Some  twenty-five  years  before,  Phelan  had 
opened  his  eyes  upon  a  half -circle  of  blue  sky, 
seen  through  the  end  of  a  canvas-covered  wagon 
on  a  Western  prairie,  and  having  first  conceived 
life  to  be  a  free-and-easy  affair  on  a  long,  open 
road,  he  thereafter  declined  to  consider  it  in 
any  other  light. 

The  only  break  in  his  nomadic  existence  was 
when  a  benevolent  old  gentleman  found  him,  a 
friendless  lad  in  a  Nashville  hospital,  nursed 
him  through  a  fever,  and  elected  to  educate  him. 
Those  were  years  of  black  captivity  for  Phelan, 
and  after  being  crammed  and  coached  for  what 
seemed  an  interminable  time,  he  was  proudly 

34 


A  DARLING  OF  MISFORTUNE 

entered  at  the  University,  where  he  promptly 
failed  in  every  subject  and  was  dropped  at  the 
mid-year  term. 

The  old  gentleman,  fortunately,  was  spared 
all  disappointment  in  regard  to  his  irresponsi- 
ble protege,  for  he  died  before  the  catastrophe, 
leaving  Phelan  Harrihan  a  legacy  of  fifteen  dol- 
lars a  month  and  the  memory  of  a  kind,  but  mis- 
guided, old  man  who  was  not  quite  right  in  his 
head. 

Being  thus  provided  with  a  sum  more  than 
adequate  to  meet  all  his  earthly  needs,  Phelan 
joyously  abandoned  the  straight  and  narrow 
path  of  learning,  and  once  more  betook  himself 
to  the  open  road. 

The  call  of  blue  skies  and  green  fields,  the  ex- 
citement of  each  day's  encounter,  the  dramatic 
possibilities  of  every  passing  incident,  the  op- 
portunity for  quick  and  intimate  fellowship, 
and  above  all  an  inherited  and  chronic  disincli- 
nation for  work,  made  Phelan  an  easy  victim 
to  that  malady  called  by  the  casual  tourist 
" wanderlust, "  but  known  in  Hoboland  as  "rail- 
road fever." 

35 


.  A  DARLING  OF  MISFORTUNE 

Only  once  a  year  did  lie  return  to  civilization, 
don  a  stiff  collar,  and  recognize  an  institution. 
During  Ms  meteoric  career  at  the  University 
he  had  been  made  a  member  of  the  Alpha  Delta 
fraternity,  in  recognition  of  his  varied  accom- 
plishments. Not  only  could  he  sing  and  dance 
and  tell  a  tale  with  the  best,  but  he  was  also  a 
mimic  and  a  ventriloquist,  gifts  which  had 
proven  invaluable  in  crucial  conflicts  with  the 
faculty,  and  had  constituted  him  a  hero  in  sev- 
eral escapades.  Of  such  material  is  college  his- 
tory made,  and  the  Alpha  Delta,  recognizing  the 
distinction  of  possessing  this  unique  member, 
refused  to  accept  his  resignation,  but  unani- 
mously demanded  his  presence  at  each  annual 
reunion. 

On  June  second,  for  five  consecutive  years, 
the  ends  of  the  earth  had  yielded  up  Phelan 
Harrihan ;  by  a  miracle  of  grace  he  had  arrived 
in  Nashville,  decently  appareled,  ready  to  re- 
spond to  his  toast,  to  bask  for  his  brief  hour 
in  the  full  glare  of  the  calcium,  then  to  depart 
again  into  oblivion. 

36 


A  DAELING  OF  MISFORTUNE 

It  was  now  the  first  day  of  June  and  as  Phe- 
lan  concluded  his  tale,  which  was  in  fact  an 
undress  rehearsal  of  what  he  intended  to  tell  on 
the  morrow,  he  looked  forward  with  modest  sat- 
isfaction to  the  triumph  that  was  sure  to  be  his. 
For  the  hundredth  time  he  made  certain  that  the 
small  brown  purse,  so  unused  to  its  present 
obesity,  was  safe  and  sound  in  his  inside  pocket. 

During  the  pause  that  followed  his  recital, 
his  audience  grew  restive. 

"Go  on,  do  it  again,"  urged  the  ragged  boy 
who  sold  the  sandwiches,  "show  us  how  Forty 
Fathom  Dan  looked  when  he  thought  he  was 
sinking. 

"I  don't  dare  trifle  with  me  features,"  said 
Phelan  solemnly.  "How  much  are  those  sand- 
wiches. One  for  five,  is  it?  Two  for  fifteen,  I 
suppose.  Well,  here's  one  for  me,  and  one  for 
Corp,  and  keep  the  change,  kid.  Ain't  that  the 
train  coming!" 

"It's  the  up  train,"  said  the  station-master, 
rising  reluctantly;  "it  meets  yours  here.  I've 
got  to  be  hustling." 

37 


A  DARLING  OF  MISFORTUNE 

Phelan,  left  without  an  audience,  strolled  up 
and  down  the  platform,  closely  followed  by  Cor- 
poral Harrihan. 

As  the  train  slowed  up  at  the  little  Junction, 
there  was  manifestly  some  commotion  on  board. 
Standing  in  the  doorway  of  the  rear  car  a  small, 
white-faced  woman  argued  excitedly  with  the 
conductor. 

"I  didn't  have  no  ticket,  I  tell  you!"  she  was 
saying  as  the  train  came  to  a  stop.  "I  lowed 
I'd  pay  my  way,  but  I  lost  my  pocket-book.  I 
lost  it  somewheres  on  the  train  here,  I  don't 
know  where  it  is ! ' 9 

"I've  seen  your  kind  before,"  said  the  con- 
ductor wearily;  "what  did  you  get  on  for  when 
you  didn't  have  anything  to  pay  your  fare 
with?" 

"I  tell  you  I  lost  my  pocket-book  after  I  got 
on!"  she  said  doggedly;  "I  ain't  going  to  get 
off,  you  daren't  put  me  off!" 

Phelan,  who  had  sauntered  up,  grew  sympa- 
thetic. He,  too,  had  experienced  the  annoyance 
of  being  pressed  for  his  fare  when  it  was  in- 
convenient to  produce  it. 

38 


A  DARLING  OF  MISFORTUNE 

"Go  ahead, "  demanded  the  conductor  firmly, 
"I  don't  want  to  push  you  off,  but  if  you  don't 
step  down  and  out  right  away,  I'll  have  it  to 
do." 

The  woman's  expression  changed  from  defi- 
ance to  terror.  She  clung  to  the  brake  with 
both  hands  and  looked  at  him  fearfully. 

'  *  No,  no,  don 't  touch  me ! ' '  she  cried.  * '  Don 't 
make  me  get  off!  I've  got  to  get  to  €incm- 
nati.  My  man's  there.  He's  been  hurt  in  the 
foundry.  He's — maybe  he's  dying  now." 

"I  can't  help  that,  maybe  it's  so  and  maybe 
it  ain't.  You  never  had  any  money  when  you 
got  on  this  train  and  you  know  it.  Go  on,  step 
off!" 

1 ' But  I  did!"  she  cried  wildly;  "I  did.  Oh, 
God!  don't  put  me  off." 

The  train  began  to  move,  and  the  conductor 
seized  the  woman's  arms  from  behind  and 
forced  her  forward.  A  moment  more  and  she 
would  be  pushed  off  the  lowest  step.  She 
turned  beseeching  eyes  on  the  little  group  of 
spectators,  and  as  she  did  so  Phelan  Harrihan 
sprang  forward  and  with  his  hand  on  the  rail- 

39 


A  DARLING  OF  MISFORTUNE 

ing,  ran    along  with    the  slow-moving    train. 

With  a  deft  movement  he  bent  forward  and 
apparently  snatched  something  from  the  folds 
of  her  skirt. 

"Get  on  to  your  luck  now,"  he  said  with  an 
encouraging  smile  that  played  havoc  with  the 
position  of  his  features;  "if  here  ain't  your 
pocket-book  all  the  time ! ' ' 

The  hysterical  woman  looked  from  the  un- 
familiar little  brown  purse  in  her  hand,  to  the 
snub-nosed,  grimy  face  of  the  young  man  run- 
ning along  the  track,  then  she  caught  her  breath. 

"Why, — "  she  cried  unsteadily,  "yes — yes, 
it's  my  purse." 

Phelan  loosened  his  hold  on  the  railing  and 
had  only  time  to  scramble  breathlessly  up  the 
bank  before  the  down  train,  the  train  for  Nash- 
ville which  was  to  have  been  his,  whizzed  past. 

He  watched  it  regretfully  as  it  slowed  up  at 
the  station,  then  almost  immediately  pulled  out 
again  for  the  south,  carrying  his  hopes  with  it. 

"  Corporal, "  said  Phelan,  to  the  dog,  who 
had  looked  upon  the  whole  episode  as  a  physical- 
culture  exercise  indulged  in  for  his  special  bene- 

40 


A  DAKLING  OF  MISFORTUNE 

fit,  "a  noble  act  of  charity  is  never  to  be  re- 
gretted, but  wasn't  I  the  original  gun,  not  to 
wait  for  the  change!" 

His  lack  of  business  method  seemed  to  weigh 
upon  him,  and  he  continued  to  apologize  to  Cor- 
poral : 

"It  was  so  sudden,  you  know,  Corp. 
Couldn't  see  a  lady  ditched,  when  I  had  a  bit 
of  stuffed  leather  in  my  pocket.  And  two 
hundred  miles  to  Nashville!  Well  I'll — be — 
jammed!" 

He  searched  in  his  trousers  pockets  and  found 
a  dime  in  one  and  a  hole  in  the  other.  It  was 
an  old  trick  of  his  to  hide  a  piece  of  money  in 
time  of  prosperity,  and  then  discover  it  in  the 
blackness  of  adversity. 

He  held  the  dime  out  ruefully:  "That's 
punk  and  plaster  for  supper,  but  we'll  have  to 
depend  on  a  hand-out  for  breakfast.  Andy 
Corp,"  he  added  apologetically,  "you  know  I 
told  you  we  was  going  to  ride  regular  like  gen- 
tlemen? Well,  I've  been  compelled  to  change 
my  plans.  We  are  going  to  turf  it  twelve  miles 
down  to  the  watering  tank,  and  sit  out  a  couple 

41 


A  DARLING  OF  MISFORTUNE 

of  dances  till  the  midnight  freight  comes  along. 
If  a  side  door  Pullman  ain't  convenient,  I'll 
have  to  go  on  the  bumpers,  then  what  11  become 
of  you,  Mr.  Corporal  Harrihan?" 

The  coming  ordeal  cast  no  shadow  over  Cor- 
poral. He  was  declaring  his  passionate  devo- 
tion, by  wild  tense  springs  at  Ph elan's  face, 
seeking  in  vain  to  overcome  the  cruel  limitation 
of  a  physiognomy  that  made  kissing  well-nigh 
impossible. 

Phelan  picked  up  his  small  bundle  and  started 
down  the  track  with  the  easy,  regular  swing 
of  one  who  has  long  since  gaged  the  distance  of 
railroad  ties.  But  his  step  lacked  its  usual 
buoyancy,  and  he  forgot  to  whistle.  Mr.  Har- 
rihan  was  undergoing  the  novel  experience  of 
being  worried.  Of  course  he  would  get  to  Nash- 
ville,— if  the  train  went,  he  could  go, — but  the 
prospect  of  arriving  without  decent  clothes  and 
with  no  money  to  pay  for  a  lodging,  did  not  in 
the  least  appeal  to  him.  He  thought  with  re- 
gret of  his  well-laid  plans:  an  early  arrival,  a 
Turkish  bath,  the  purchase  of  a  new  outfit,  in- 
stalment at  a  good  hotel,  then — presentation  at 

42 


A  DARLING  OF  MISFORTUNE 

the  fraternity  headquarters  of  Mr.  Phelan  Har- 
rihan,  Gentleman  for  a  Night.  He  could  pic- 
ture it  all,  the  dramatic  effect  of  his  entrance, 
the  yell  of  welcome,  the  buzz  of  questions,  and 
the  evasive,  curiosity- enkindling  answers  which 
he  meant  to  give.  Then  the  banquet,  with  its 
innumerable  courses  of  well-served  food,  the 
speeches  and  toasts,  and  the  personal  ovation 
that  always  followed  Mr.  Harrihan's  unique 
contribution. 

Oh!  he  couldn't  miss  it!  Providence  would 
interfere  in  his  behalf,  he  knew  it  would,  it  al- 
ways did.  "Give  me  my  luck,  and  keep  your 
lucre !"  was  a  saying  of  Phelan 's,  quoted  by 
brother  hoboes  from  Maine  to  the  Gulf. 

All  the  long  afternoon  he  tramped  the  ties, 
with  Corporal  at  his  heels.  As  dusk  came  on 
the  clouds  that  had  been  doing  picket  duty, 
joined  the  regiment  on  the  horizon  which  slowly 
wheeled  and  charged  across  the  sky.  Phelan 
scanned  the  heavens  with  an  experienced 
weather  eye,  then  began  to  look  for  a  possible 
shelter  from  the  coming  shower.  On  either 
side,  the  fields  stretched  away  in  undulating 

43 


A  DABLING  OF  MISFORTUNE 

lines,  with  no  sign  of  a  habitation  in  sight.  A 
dejected  old  scare-crow,  and  a  tumble-down 
shed  in  the  distance  were  the  only  objects  that 
presented  themselves. 

Turning  up  his  coat-collar  Phelan  made  a 
dash  for  the  shed,  but  the  shower  overtook  him 
half-way.  It  was  not  one  of  your  gentle  little 
summer  showers,  that  patter  on  the  shingles 
waking  echoes  underneath;  it  was  a  large  and 
instantaneous  breakage  in  the  celestial  plumb- 
ing that  let  gallons  of  water  down  Phelan 's 
back,  filling  his  pockets,  hat  brim,  and  shoes 
and  sending  a  dashing  cascade  down  Corporal's 
oblique  profile. 

"  Float  on  your  back,  Corp,  and  pull  for  the 
shore!"  laughed  Phelan  as  he  landed  with  a 
spring  under  the  dilapidated  shed.  ' i  Cheer  up, 
old  pard;  you  look  as  if  all  your  past  mis- 
deeds had  come  before  you  in  your  drowning 
hour." 

Corporal,  shivering  and  unhappy,  crept  un- 
der cover,  and  dumbly  demanded  of  Phelan  what 
he  intended  to  do  about  it. 

" Light  a  blaze,  sure,"  said  Phelan,  "and  lin- 
44 


A  DARLING  OF  MISFORTUNE 

ger  here  in  the  air  of  the  tropics  till  the  mid- 
night freight  comes  along. " 

Scraping  together  the  old  wood  and  debris  in 
the  rear  of  the  shed,  and  extricating  with  some 
difficulty  a  small  tin  match-box  from  his  sat- 
urated clothes,  he  knelt  before  the  pile  and  used 
all  of  his  persuasive  powers  to  induce  it  to  ig- 
nite. 

At  the  first  feeble  blaze  Corporal's  spirits 
rose  so  promptly  that  he  had  to  be  restrained. 

"Easy  there!  Corp,"  cautioned  Phelan.  "A 
fire's  like  a  woman,  you  can't  be  sure  of  it  too 
soon.  And,  dog  alive,  stop  wagging  your  tail, 
don't  you  see  it  makes  a  draft?" 

The  fire  capriciously  would,  then  it  wouldn't. 
A  tiny  flame  played  tantalizingly  along  the  top 
of  a  stick  only  to  go  sullenly  out  when  it  reached 
the  end.  Match  after  match  was  sacrificed  to 
the  cause,  but  at  last,  down  deep  under  the  sur- 
face, there  was  a  steady,  reassuring,  cheerful 
crackle  that  made  Phelan  sit  back  on  his  heels, 
and  remark  complacently : 

"They  most  generally  come  around,  in  the 
end!" 

45 


A  DARLING  OF  MISFORTUNE 

In  five  minutes  the  fire  was  burning  bright. 
Corporal  was  dreaming  of  meaty  bones  in  far 
fence  corners,  and  Phelan,  less  free  from  the 
incumbrances  of  civilization,  was  divesting  him- 
self of  his  rain-soaked  garments. 

From  one  of  the  innumerable  pockets  of  his 
old  cutaway  coat  he  took  a  comb  and  brush  and 
clothes-brush,  and  carefully  deposited  them  be- 
fore the  fire.  Then  from  around  his  neck  he  re- 
moved a  small  leather  case,  hung  by  a  string 
and  holding  a  razor.  His  treasured  toilet  ar- 
ticles thus  being  cared  for,  he  turned  his  atten- 
tion to  the  contents  of  his  dripping  bundle.  A 
suit  of  underwear  and  a  battered  old  copy  of 
Eli  Perkins  were  ruefully  examined,  and  spread 
out  to  dry. 

The  fire,  while  it  lasted,  was  doing  admirable 
service,  but  the  wood  supply  was  limited,  and 
Phelan  saw  that  he  must  take  immediate  ad- 
vantage of  the  heat.  How  to  dry  the  under- 
wear which  he  wore  was  the  question  which  puz- 
zled him,  and  he  wrestled  with  it  for  several 
moments  before  an  inspiration  came. 

" I'll  borrow  some  duds  from  the  scarecrow !" 
46 


A  DARLING  OF  MISFORTUNE 

he  said  half  aloud,  and  went  forth  immediately 
to  execute  his  idea. 

The  rain  had  ceased,  but  the  fields  were  still 
afloat,  and  Phelan  waded  ankle  deep  through 
the  slush  grass,  to  where  the  scarecrow  raised 
his  threatening  arms  against  the  twilight  sky. 

"Beggars  and  borrowers  shouldn't  be  choos- 
ers, "  said  Phelan,  as  he  divested  the  figure  of 
its  ragged  trousers  and  coat,  "but  I  have  a 
strong  feeling  in  my  mind  that  these  habili- 
ments ain't  going  to  become  me.  Who's  your 
tailor,  friend?" 

The  scarecrow,  reduced  now  to  an  old  straw 
hat  and  a  necktie,  maintained  a  dignified  and 
oppressive  silence. 

"Well,  he  ain't  on  to  the  latest  cut,"  contin- 
ued Phelan,  wringing  the  water  out  of  the  coat. 
"But  maybe  these  here  is  your  pajamas? 
Don't  tell  me  I  disturbed  you  after  you'd  re- 
tired for  the  night?  Very  well  then,  aurevoy." 

With  the  clothes  under  his  arm  he  made  his 
way  back  to  the  shed,  and  divesting  himself  of 
his  own  raiment  he  got  into  his  borrowed  prop- 
erty. 

47 


A  DARLING  OF  MISFORTUNE 

By  this  time  the  fire  had  died  down,  and  the 
place  was  in  semi-darkness.  Phelan  threw  on 
a  handful  of  sticks  and,  as  the  blaze  flared  up, 
he  caught  his  first  clear  sight  of  his  newly  ac- 
quired clothes.  They  were  ragged  and  weather- 
stained,  and  circled  about  with  broad,  unmis- 
takable stripes. 

"Well,  I'll  be  spiked !"  said  Phelan,  vastly 
amused.  "I  wouldn't  V  thought  it  of  a  nice, 
friendly  scarecrow  like  that!  Buncoed  me, 
didn't  he?  Well,  feathers  don't  always  make 
the  jail-bird.  Wonder  what  poor  devil  wore 
'em  last?  Peeled  out  of  'em  in  this  very  shed, 
like  as  not.  Well,  they'll  serve  my  purpose  all 
right,  all  right." 

He  took  off  his  shoes,  placed  them  under  his 
liead  for  a  pillow,  lit  a  short  cob  pipe,  threw 
on  fresh  wood,  and  prepared  to  wait  for  his 
clothes  to  dry. 

Meanwhile  the  question  of  the  banquet  re- 
volved itself  continually  in  his  mind.  This  time 
to-morrow  night,  the  preparations  would  be  in 
full  swing.  Instead  of  being  hungry,  half 
naked,  and  chilled,  he  might  be  in  a  luxurious 

48 


A  DARLING  OF  MISFORTUNE 

club-house  dallying  with  caviar,  stuffed  olives, 
and  Benedictine.  All  that  lay  between  him  and 
bliss  were  two  hundred  miles  of  railroad  ties 
and  a  decent  suit  of  clothes ! 

"Wake  up,  Corp;  for  the  love  of  Mike  be 
sociable!"  cried  Phelan  when  the  situation  be- 
came too  gloomy  to  contemplate.  "Ain't  that 
like  a  dog  now?  Hold  your  tongue  when  I'm 
longing  for  a  word  of  kindly  sympathy  an'  en- 
couragement, and  barking  your  fool  head  off 
once  we  get  on  the  freight.  Much  good  it'll 
be  doing  us  to  get  to  Nashville  in  this  fix,  but 
we'll  take  our  blessings  as  they  come,  Corp, 
and  just  trust  to  luck  that  somebody  will  for- 
get to  turn  'em  off.  I  know  when  I  get  to  the 
banquet  there'll  be  one  other  man  absent. 
That's  Bell  of  Terre  Haute.  Him  and  me  is 
always  in  the  same  boat,  he  gets  ten  thousand 
a  year  and  ain't  got  the  nerve  to  spend  it,  and 
I  get  fifteen  a  month,  and  ain't  got  the  nerve  to 
keep  it!  Poor  old  Bell." 

Corporal,  roused  from  his  slumbers,  sniffed 
inquiringly  at  the  many  garments  spread  about 
the  fire,  yawned,  turned  around  several  times  in 

49 


A  DARLING  OF  MISFORTUNE 

dog  fashion,  then  curled  up  beside  Phelan,  sig- 
nifying by  his  bored  expression  that  he  hadn't 
the  slightest  interest  in  the  matter  under  dis- 
cussion. 

Gradually  the  darkness  closed  in,  and  the  fire 
died  to  embers.  It  would  be  four  hours  before 
the  night  freight  slowed  up  at  the  water  tank, 
and  Phelan,  tired  from  his  long  tramp,  and 
drowsy  from  the  heat  and  the  vapor  rising  from 
the  drying  clothes,  shifted  the  shoe-buttons 
from  under  his  left  ear,  and  drifted  into  dream- 
land. 

How  long  he  slept  undisturbed,  only  the  scare- 
crow outside  knew.  He  was  dimly  aware,  in  his 
dreams,  of  subdued  sounds  and,  by  and  by,  the 
sounds  formed  themselves  into  whispered  words 
and,  still  half  asleep,  he  listened. 

*  *  I  thought  we  'd  find  him  along  here.  This  is 
the  road  they  always  take, ' '  a  low  voice  was  say- 
ing; "you  and  Sam  stand  here,  John  and  me '11 
tackle  him  from  this  side.  Hell  put  up  a  stiff 
fight,  you  bet." 

Phelan  opened  his  eyes,  and  tried  to  remem- 
ber where  he  was. 

50 


A  DARLING  OF  MISFORTUNE 

"Gosh I  look  at  that  bulldog !"  came  another 
whisper,  and  at  the  same  moment  Corporal 
jumped  to  his  feet,  growling  angrily. 

As  he  did  so,  four  men  sprang  through  the 
opening  of  the  shed,  and  seized  Phelan  by  the 
arms  and  legs. 

'  '  Look  out  there, ' '  cried  one  excitedly ;  * i  don 't 
let  him  escape ;  here 's  the  handcuffs. ' ' 

1 1  But  here, ' '  cried  Phelan,  ' '  what 's  up ;  what 
you  doing  to  me  f ' ' 

By  this  time  Corporal,  thoroughly  roused, 
made  a  vicious  lunge  at  the  nearest  man.  The 
next  minute  there  was  a  sharp  report  of  a  pis- 
tol, and  the  bull-terrier  went  yelping  and  limp- 
ing out  into  the  night. 

"You  coward !"  cried  Phelan,  struggling  to 
rise,  "if  you  killed  that  dog — " 

'  '  Get  those  shackles  on  his  legs, ' '  shouted  one 
of  the  men.  '  *  Is  the  wagon  ready,  Sam  ?  Take 
his  legs  there,  Fve  got  his  head.  Leave  the 
truck  here,  we  Ve  got  to  drive  like  sand  to  catch 
that  train  I" 

After  being  dragged  to  the  road  and  thrown 
into  a  spring  wagon,  Phelan  found  himself  lying 

51 


A  DARLING  OF  MISFORTUNE 

on  his  back,  jolting  over  a  rough,  country  road, 
his  three  vigilant  captors  sitting  beside  him 
with  pistols  in  hand. 

Any  effort  on  his  part  to  explain  or  seek  in- 
formation was  promptly  and  emphatically  dis- 
couraged. But  in  time  he  gathered,  from  the 
bits  let  fall  by  his  captors,  that  he  was  an  es- 
caped convict,  of  a  most  desperate  character,  for 
whom  a  reward  was  offered,  and  that  he  had 
been  at  large  twenty-four  hours. 

In  vain  did  he  struggle  for  a  hearing.  Only 
once  did  he  get  a  response  to  his  oft-repeated 
plea  of  innocence.  It  was  when  he  told  how  he 
had  come  by  the  clothes  he  had  on.  For  once 
Phelan  got  a  laugh  when  he  did  not  relish  it. 

' t  Got  'em  off  a  scarecrow,  did  you  1 ' '  said  the 
man  at  his  head,  when  the  fun  had  subsided; 
' '  say,  I  want  to  be  'round  when  you  tell  that  to 
the  Superintendent  of  the  Penitentiary — I  ain't 
heard  him  laugh  in  ten  years ! " 

So,  in  the  face  of  such  unbelief,  Phelan  lapsed 
into  silence  and  gloom.  What  became  of  him 
concerned  him  less,  at  the  moment,  than  the  fate 
of  Corporal,  and  the  thought  of  the  faithful  little 

52 


A  DARLING  OF  MISFORTUNE 

beast  wounded  and  perhaps  dying  out  there  in 
the  fields,  made  him  sick  at  heart. 

Just  as  they  came  in  sight  of  the  lights  of  the 
station,  the  whistle  of  the  freight  was  heard 
down  the  track  and  the  horses  were  beaten  to  a 
gallop. 

Phelan  was  hurried  from  the  wagon  into  an 
empty  box  car,  with  his  full  guard  in  attend- 
ance. As  the  train  pulled  out  he  heard  a  little 
whimper  beside  him  and  there,  panting  for 
breath  after  his  long  run,  and  with  one  ear  hang- 
ing limp  and  bloody,  cowered  Corporal.  Phe- 
lan 's  hands  were  not  at  his  disposal,  but  even 
if  they  had  been  it  is  doubtful  if  he  would  have 
denied  Corp  the  joy  for  once  of  kissing  him. 

Through  the  rest  of  the  night  the  heavy  cars 
rumbled  over  the  rails,  and  the  men  took  turn 
about  sleeping  and  guarding  the  prisoner. 
Only  once  did  Phelan  venture  another  question : 

"Say,  you  sports,  you  don't  mind  telling  me 
where  you  are  taking  me,  do  you?" 

' '  Listen  at  his  gaff ! ' '  said  one.  *  *  He  '11  know 
all  right  when  he  gets  to  Nashville." 

Phelan  sent  such  a  radiant  smile  into  the 
53 


A  DARLING  OF  MISFORTUNE 

darkness  that  it  threatened  to  reveal  itself. 
Then  he  slipped  his  encircled  wrists  about  Cor- 
poral's body  and  giving  him  a  squeeze  whis- 
pered : 

"It's  better 'n  the  bumpers,  Corp." 
At  the  Penitentiary  next  day  there  was  con- 
sternation and  dismay  when  instead  of  the  des- 
perate criminal,  who  two  days  before  had  scaled 
the  walls  and  dropped  to  freedom,  an  innocent 
little  Irishman  was  presented,  whose  only  of- 
fense apparently  was  in  having  donned,  tempo- 
rarily, the  garb  of  crime. 

As  the  investigation  proceeded,  Phelan  found 
it  expedient,  to  become  excessively  indignant. 
That  an  American  citizen,  strolling  harmlessly 
through  the  fields  of  a  summer  evening,  and 
being  caught  in  a  shower,  should  attempt  to  dry 
his  clothes  in  an  unused  shed,  and  find  himself 
attacked  and  bound,  and  hurried  away  without 
his  belongings  to  a  distant  city,  was  an  incon- 
ceivable outrage.  If  a  shadow  of  doubt  re- 
mained as  to  his  identity,  a  score  of  prominent 
gentlemen  in  the  city  would  be  able  to  identify 
him.  He  named  them,  and  added  that  he  was 

54 


A  DARLING  OF  MISFORTUNE 

totally  unable  to  hazard  a  guess  as  to  what  form 
their  resentment  of  his  treatment  would  as- 
sume. 

The  authorities  looked  grave.  Could  Mr. 
Harrihan  remember  just  what  articles  he  had 
left  behind!  Mr.  Harrihan  could.  A  suit  of 
clothes,  a  pair  of  shoes,  a  hat,  a  toilet  set,  and 
a  small  sum  of  money;  "the  loss  of  which, " 
added  Phelan  with  a  fine  air  of  indifference, 
"are  as  nothing  compared  to  the  indignity 
offered  to  my  person. ' ' 

Would  the  gentleman  be  satisfied  if  the  cost 
of  these  articles,  together  with  the  railroad  fare 
back  to  Lebanon  Junction  be  paid  him?  The 
gentleman,  after  an  injured  pause,  announced 
that  he  would. 

And  thus  it  was  that  Mr.  Phelan  Harrihan,  in 
immaculate  raiment,  presented  himself  at  the 
Sixth  Annual  Reunion  of  the  Alpha  Delta  fra- 
ternity and,  with  a  complacent  smile  encircling 
a  ten-cent  cigar,  won  fresh  laurels  by  recount- 
ing, with  many  adornments,  the  adventures  of 
the  previous  night. 


55 


"POP" 


POP 


1  9 


THE  gloomy  corridor  in  the  big  Baltimore 
hospital  was  still  and  deserted  save  for 
a  nurse  who  sat  at  a  flat-topped  desk  under  a 
green  lamp  mechanically  transferring  figures 
from  one  chart  to  another.  It  was  the  period 
of  quiet  that  usually  precedes  the  first  restless 
stirring  of  the  sick  at  the  breaking  of  dawn. 
The  silence  was  intense  as  only  a  silence  can  be 
that  waits  momentarily  for  an  interrupting 
sound. 

Suddenly  it  came  in  a  prolonged,  imperative 
ring  of  the  telephone  bell.  So  insistent  was  the 
call  that  the  nurse 's  hand  closed  over  the  trans- 
mitter long  before  the  burr  ceased.  The  office 
was  notifying  Ward  B  that  an  emergency  case 
had  been  brought  in  and  an  immediate  opera- 
tion was  necessary. 

With  prompt  efficiency  the  well-ordered  ma- 
chinery for  saving  human  life  was  put  in  mo- 

59 


"POP" 

tion.  Soft-footed  nurses  emerged  from  the 
shadows  and  moved  quickly  about,  making  nec- 
essary arrangements.  A  trim,  comely  woman, 
straight  of  feature  and  clear  of  eye,  gave  di- 
rections in  low  decisive  tones.  When  the  tele- 
phone rang  the  second  time  she  answered  it. 

"Yes,  Office,"  she  said,  "this  is  Miss 
Fletcher.  They  are  not  going  to  operate? 
Too  late  ?  I  see.  Very  well.  Send  the  patient 
up  to  No.  16.  Everything  is  ready. ' ' 

Even  as  she  spoke  the  complaining  creak  of 
the  elevator  could  be  heard,  and  presently  two 
orderlies  appeared  at  the  end  of  the  corridor 
bearing  a  stretcher. 

Beside  it,  with  head  erect  and  jaw  set,  strode 
a  strangely  commanding  figure.  Six  feet  two 
he  loomed  in  the  shadows,  a  gaunt,  raw-boned 
old  mountaineer.  On  his  head  was  a  tall,  wide- 
brimmed  hat  and  in  his  right  hand  he  carried  a 
bulky  carpet  sack.  The  left  sleeve  of  his  long- 
tailed  coat  hung  empty  to  the  elbow.  The  mas- 
sive head  with  its  white  flowing  beard  and  hawk- 
like face,  the  beaked  nose  and  fierce,  deep-set 
eyes,  might  have  served  as  a  model  for  Michael 

60 


"POP" 

Angelo  when  he  modeled  his  immortal  Moses. 

As  the  orderlies  passed  through  the  door  of 
No.  16  and  lowered  the  stretcher,  the  old  man 
put  down  his  carpet  sack  and  grimly  watched 
the  nurse  uncover  the  patient.  Under  the  worn 
homespun  coverlet,  stained  with  the  dull  dyes  of 
barks  and  berries,  lay  an  emaciated  figure,  just 
as  it  had  been  brought  into  the  hospital.  One 
long  coarse  garment  covered  it,  and  the  bare 
feet  with  their  prominent  ankle  bones  and  the 
large  work-hardened  hands  might  have  belonged 
to  either  a  boy  or  a  girl. 

' '  Take  that  thar  head  wrappin '  off ! ' '  ordered 
the  old  man  peremptorily. 

A  nurse  carefully  unwound  the  rough  woolen 
scarf  and  as  she  did  so  a  mass  of  red  hair  fell 
across  the  pillow,  hair  that  in  spite  of  its  matted 
disorder  showed  flashes  of  gleaming  gold. 

"We'll  get  her  on  the  bed,"  a  night  nurse 
said  to  an  assistant.  "Put  your  arm  under  her 
knees.  Don't  jar  the  stretcher  I" 

Before  the  novice  could  obey  another  and  a 
stronger  arm  was  thrust  forward. 

"Stand  back  thar,  some  of  you-uns,"  com- 
61 


"POP" 

manded  a  loud  voice,  "I'll  holp  move  Sal  my- 
self." 

In  vain  were  protests  from  nurses  and  order- 
lies alike,  the  old  mountaineer  seemed  bent  on 
making  good  use  of  his  one  arm  and  with  quick 
dexterity  he  helped  to  lift  her  on  the  bed. 

"Now,  whar's  the  doctor?"  he  demanded, 
standing  with  feet  far  apart  and  head  thrown 
back. 

The  doctor  was  at  the  desk  in  the  corridor, 
speaking  to  Miss  Fletcher  in  an  undertone : 

"We  only  made  a  superficial  examination 
down-stairs,"  he  was  saying,  "but  it  is  evi- 
dently a  ruptured  appendix.  If  she's  living 
in  a  couple  of  hours  I  may  be  able  to  operate. 
But  it 's  ten  to  one  she  dies  on  the  table. ' ' 

"Who  are  they,  and  where  did  they  come 
from?"  Miss  Fletcher  asked  curiously. 

"Their  name  is  Hawkins,  and  they  are  from 
somewhere  in  the  Kentucky  mountains.  Think 
of  his  starting  with  her  in  that  condition !  He 
can't  read  or  write;  it's  the  first  time  he  has 
ever  been  in  a  city.  I  am  afraid  he's  going  to 

62 


"POP" 

prove  troublesome.  You'd  better  get  him  out 
of  there  as  soon  as  possible. " 

But  anyone,  however  mighty  in  authority, 
who  proposed  to  move  Jeb  Hawkins  when  he 
did  not  choose  to  be  moved  reckoned  unknow- 
ingly. All  tactics  were  exhausted  from  sugges- 
tion to  positive  command,  and  the  rules  of  the 
hospital  were  quoted  in  vain. 

In  the  remote  regions  where  Jeb  lived  there 
were  no  laws  to  break.  Every  man's  home  was 
his  stronghold,  to  be  protected  at  the  point  of 
a  pistol.  He  was  one  of  the  three  million  peo- 
ple of  good  Anglo-Saxon  stock  who  had  been 
stranded  in  the  highlands  when  the  Cumber- 
land Mountains  dammed  the  stream  of  human- 
ity that  swept  westward  through  the  level  wil- 
derness. Development  had  been  arrested  so 
long  in  Jeb  and  his  ancestors  that  the  outside 
world,  its  interests  and  its  mode  of  living,  was 
a  matter  of  supreme  and  profound  indifference. 
A  sudden  and  unprecedented  emergency  had 
driven  him  to  the  ' '  Settlements. ' '  His  girl  had 
developed  an  ailment  that  baffled  the  skill  of  the 

63 


"POP" 

herb  doctors;  so,  following  one  bit  of  advice 
after  another,  he  had  finally  landed  in  Balti- 
more. And  now  that  the  terrible  journey  was 
ended  and  Sal  was  in  the  hands  of  the  doctor 
who  was  to  work  the  cure,  the  wholly  prepos- 
terous request  was  made  of  him  that  he  abandon 
her  to  her  fate ! 

With  dogged  determination  he  sat  beside  the 
bed,  and  chewed  silently  and  stolidly  through 
the  argument. 

"You  gals  mought  ez  well  save  yer  wind,"  he 
announced  at  last.  "Ef  Sal  stays,  I  stay.  Ef 
I  go,  Sal  goes.  We  ain't  axin'  favors  of  no- 
body." 

He  was  so  much  in  the  way  during  the  neces- 
sary preparations  for  the  possible  operation 
that  finally  Miss  Fletcher  was  appealed  to.  She 
was  a  woman  accustomed  to  giving  orders  and 
to  having  them  obeyed;  but  she  was  also  a 
woman  of  tact.  Ten  minutes  of  valuable  time 
were  spent  in  propitiating  the  old  man  before 
she  suggested  that  he  come  with  her  into  the 
corridor  while  the  nurses  straightened  the  room. 
A  few  minutes  later  she  returned,  smiling: 

64 


"POP" 

"I've  corralled  him  in  the  linen  closet,"  she 
whispered;  "he  is  unpacking  his  carpet  sack  as 
if  he  meant  to  take  up  his  abode  with  us." 

* 1 1  am  afraid, ' '  said  the  special  nurse,  glanc- 
ing toward  the  bed,  "he  won't  have  long  to 
stay.  How  do  you  suppose  he  ever  got  her 
here?" 

"I  asked  him.  He  said  he  drove  her  for 
three  days  in  an  ox-cart  along  the  creek  bottom 
until  they  got  to  Jackson.  Then  he  told  the 
ticket  agent  to  send  them  to  the  best  hospital 
the  train  ran  to.  Neither  of  them  had  ever 
seen  a  train  before.  It's  a  miracle  she's  lived 
this  long." 

"Does  he  realize  her  condition?" 

"I  don't  know.  I  suppose  I  ought  to  tell  him 
that  the  end  may  come  at  any  time." 

But  telling  him  was  not  an  easy  matter  as 
Miss  Fletcher  found  when  she  joined  him  later 
in  the  linen  closet.  He  was  busy  spreading  his 
varied  possessions  along  the  shelves  on  top  of 
the  piles  of  immaculate  linen,  stopping  now  and 
then  to  refresh  himself  with  a  bite  of  salt  pork 
and  some  corn  pone  that  had  been  packed  for 

65 


"POP" 

days  along  with  Sally's  shoes  and  sunbonnet 
and  his  own  scanty  wardrobe. 

"I  suppose  you  know,"  Miss  Fletcher  began 
gently,  trying  not  to  show  her  chagrin  at  the 
state  of  the  room,  "that  your  daughter  is  in  a 
very  serious  condition." 

He  looked  at  her  sharply.  "Shucks!  Sal '11 
pull  through,"  he  said  with  mingled  defiance 
and  alarm.  "You  ain't  saw  her  afore  in  one 
of  them  spells.  Besides,  hit  meks  a  difference 
when  a  gal's  paw  and  grandpaw  and  great- 
grandpaw  was  feud-followers.  A  feud-follower 
teks  more  killin '  then  ordinary  folks.  Her  maw 
was  subjec'  to  cramp  colic  afore  her." 

"But  this  isn't  cramp  colic,"  Miss  Fletcher 
urged,  "it's  her  appendix,  and  it  wasn't  taken 
in  time." 

"Well,  ain't  they  goin'  to  draw  it!"  he  asked 
irritably.  "Ain't  that  whut  we're  here  fer?" 

"Yes;  but  you  don't  understand.  The  doc- 
tor may  decide  not  to  operate." 

The  old  man's  face  wore  a  puzzled  look,  then 
his  lips  hardened : 

"Mebbe  hit's  the  money  thet's  a-worryin' 
66 


"POP" 

him.  You  go  tell  him  that  Jeb  Hawkins  pays 
ez  he  goes !  I  got  pension  money  sewed  in  my 
coat  frum  the  hem  clean  up  to  the  collar.  I 
hain't  askin'  none  of  you  to  cure  my  gal  fer 
nothin'!" 

Miss  Fletcher  laid  her  hand  on  his  arm.  It 
was  a  shapely  hand  as  well  as  a  kindly  one. 

"It  isn't  a  question  of  money,"  she  said 
quietly,  "it's  a  question  of  life  or  death.  There 
is  only  a  slight  chance  that  your  daughter  will 
live  through  the  day." 

Someone  tapped  at  the  door  and  Miss 
Fletcher,  after  a  whispered  consultation,  turned 
again  to  the  old  man : 

* '  They  have  decided  to  take  the  chance, ' '  she 
said  hurriedly.  "They  are  carrying  her  up 
now.  You  stay  here,  and  I  will  let  you  know 
as  soon  as  it  is  over." 

"Whar  they  fetching  her  to?"  he  demanded 
savagely. 

"To  the  operating-room." 

"You  take  me  thar!" 

"But  you  can't  go,  Mr.  Hawkins.  No  one 
but  the  surgeons  and  nurses  can  be  with  her. 

67 


"POP" 

Besides,  the  nurse  who  was  just  here  said  she 
had  regained  consciousness,  and  it  might  excite 
her  to  see  you." 

She  might  as  well  have  tried  to  stop  a  moun- 
tain torrent.  He  brushed  past  her  and  was 
making  his  way  to  the  elevator  before  she  had 
ceased  speaking.  At  the  open  door  of  the  oper- 
ating-room on  the  fourth  floor  he  paused.  On 
a  long  white  table  lay  the  patient,  a  white-clad 
doctor  on  either  side  of  her,  and  a  nurse  in  the 
background  sorting  a  handful  of  gleaming  in- 
struments. With  two  strides  the  old  man 
reached  the  girPs  side. 

"Sal!"  he  said  fiercely,  bending  over  her, 
"air  ye  wuss?" 

Her  dazed  eyes  cleared  slightly. 

"I  dunno,  Pop,"  she  murmured  feebly. 

"Ye  ain't  fixin'  to  die,  air  ye?"  he  persisted. 

"I  dunno,  Pop." 

"Don't  you  let  'em  skeer  you,"  he  com- 
manded sternly.  "You  keep  on  a-fightin'. 
Don 't  you  dare  give  up.  Sal,  do  you  hear  me  1 ' ' 

The  girl's  wavering  consciousness  steadied, 
and  for  a  moment  the  challenge  that  the  old  man 

68 


"POP" 

flung  at  death  was  valiantly  answered  in  her 
pain-racked  eyes. 

For  an  hour  and  a  half  the  surgeons  worked. 
The  case,  critical  enough  at  best,  was  greatly 
complicated  by  the  long  delay.  Twice  further 
effort  seemed  useless,  and  it  was  only  by  the 
prompt  administration  of  oxygen  that  the  end 
was  averted.  During  the  nerve-racking  sus- 
pense Pop  not  only  refused  to  leave  the  room, 
he  even  refused  to  stand  back  from  the  table. 
With  keen,  suspicious  eyes  he  followed  every 
movement  of  the  surgeons'  hands.  Only  once 
did  he  speak  out,  and  that  was  in  the  begin- 
ning, to  an  interne  who  was  administering  the 
anaesthetic : 

"Lift  that  funnel,  you  squash-headed  fool!" 
he  thundered;  "don't  you  see  hit's  marking  of 
her  cheek?" 

When  the  work  was  finished  and  the  uncon- 
scious patient  had  been  taken  down  to  her  ward, 
Pop  still  kept  his  place  beside  her.  With  his 
hand  on  her  pulse  he  watched  her  breathing, 
watched  the  first  faint  quivering  of  her  lids,  the 
restlessness  that  grew  into  pain  and  later  into 

69 


"POP" 

agony.  Hour  after  hour  he  sat  there  and 
passed  with  her  through  that  crucifixion  that 
follows  some  capital  operations. 

On  his  refusal  at  luncheon  time  to  leave  the 
bedside  Miss  Fletcher  ignored  the  rules  and  sent 
him  a  tray;  but  when  night  came  and  he  still 
refused  to  go,  she  became  impatient. 

"You  can't  stay  in  here  to-night,  Mr.  Haw- 
kins," she  said  firmly.  "I  have  asked  one  of 
the  orderlies,  who  lives  nearby,  to  take  you 
home  with  him.  We  can  send  for  you  if  there 
is  any  change.  I  must  insist  that  you  go  now. ' ' 

"Ain't  I  made  it  cl'ar  from  the  start,"  cried 
Pop  angrily,  "thet  I  ain't  a-goin'  to  be  druv 
out?  You-uns  kin  call  me  muley-headed  or 
whutever  you've  a  mind  to.  Sal's  always  stood 
by  me,  and  by  golly,  I'm  a-goin'  to  stand  by 
Sal!" 

His  raised  voice  roused  the  patient,  and  a 
feeble  summons  brought  Miss  Fletcher  to  the 
bedside. 

1  '  Say, ' '  plead  the  girl  faintly, ' '  don 't  rile  Pop. 
He 's  the — fightenest  man — in — Breathitt — when 
his  blood's — up." 

70 


"POP" 

"All  right,  dear,"  said  Miss  Fletcher,  with  a 
soothing  hand  on  the  hot  brow;  "he  shall  do  as 
he  likes. " 

During  that  long  night  the  girl  passed  from 
one  paroxysm  of  pain  to  another  with  brief  in- 
tervals of  drug-induced  sleep.  During  the  quiet 
moments  the  nurse  snatched  what  rest  she  could ; 
but  old  Jeb  Hawkins  stuck  to  his  post  in  the 
straight-backed  chair,  never  nodding,  never  re- 
laxing the  vigilance  of  his  watch.  For  Pop  was 
doing  sentry  duty,  much  as  he  had  done  it  in 
the  old  days  of  the  Civil  War,  when  he  had  an- 
swered Lincoln's  first  call  for  volunteers  and 
given  his  left  arm  for  his  country. 

But  the  enemy  to-night  was  mysterious, 
crafty,  one  that  might  come  in  the  twinkling  of 
an  eye,  and  a  sentry  at  seventy  is  not  what  he 
was  at  twenty-two.  When  the  doctor  arrived 
in  the  morning  he  found  the  old  man  haggard 
with  fatigue. 

"This  won't  do,  Mr.  Hawkins,"  he  said 
kindly;  "you  must  get  some  rest." 

"Be  she  goin'  to  die?"  Pop  demanded, 
steadying  himself  by  a  chair. 

71 


"POP" 

"It  is  too  soon  to  tell,"  the  doctor  said  eva- 
sively; "but  I'll  say  this  much,  her  pulse  is  bet- 
ter than  I  expected.  Now,  go  get  some  sleep." 

Half  an  hour  later  a  strange  rumbling  sound 
puzzled  the  nurses  in  Ward  B.  It  came  at  reg- 
ular intervals,  rising  from  a  monotonous  growl 
to  a  staccato,  then  dying  away  in  a  plaintive 
diminuendo.  It  was  not  until  one  of  the  nurses 
needed  clean  sheets  that  the  mystery  was  ex- 
plained. On  the  floor  of  the  linen  closet, 
stretched  on  his  back  with  his  carpet  sack  under 
his  head  and  his  empty  sleeve  across  his  chest, 
lay  Pop ! 

From  that  time  on  the  old  mountaineer  be- 
came a  daily  problem  to  Ward  B.  It  is  true,  he 
agreed  in  time  to  go  home  at  night  with  the 
orderly;  but  by  six  in  the  morning  he  was  sit- 
ting on  the  hospital  steps,  impatiently  await- 
ing admission.  The  linen  closet  was  still  re- 
garded by  him  as  his  private  apartment,  to 
which  he  repaired  at  such  times  as  he  could  not 
stay  in  Sally's  room,  and  refreshed  himself  with 
the  luncheon  he  brought  with  him  each  day. 

During  the  first  week,  when  the  girl's  life 
72 


"POP" 

hung  in  the  balance,  he  was  granted  privileges 
which  he  afterward  refused  to  relinquish.  The 
hospital  confines,  after  the  freedom  of  the  hills, 
chafed  him  sorely.  As  the  days  grew  warmer 
he  discarded  his  coat,  collar,  and  at  times  his 
shoes. 

1  '  I  'low  I  'm  goin '  to  tek  Sal  home  next  week ! '  * 
became  his  daily  threat. 

But  the  days  and  weeks  slipped  by,  and  still 
the  girl  lay  with  a  low,  consuming  fever,  and 
still  Pop  watched  by  her  side,  showing  her  no 
affection  by  word  or  gesture  but  serving  her 
and  anticipating  her  every  want  with  a  thor- 
oughness that  left  little  for  the  nurses  to  do. 

In  some  way  Miss  Fletcher  had  gained  hi& 
confidence.  To  her  he  intrusted  the  bills  which 
he  ripped  from  his  coat  at  the  end  of  each  week 
with  the  instruction  that  she  "pay  off  them  boys 
down  in  the  office  fa'r  an'  squar',  but  not  to  'low 
'em  to  cheat  her."  It  may  have  been  her  grow- 
ing interest  in  the  invalid  that  won  his  favor, 
for  she  came  in  often  to  chat  awhile  with  Sally 
and  sometimes  brought  up  a  handful  of  flowers 
to  brighten  the  sick  room. 

73 


"POP" 

" She's  getting  better, "  she  said  one  morning 
as  she  held  the  girl's  big  bony  hand  and  looked 
down  at  the  thin  bright  face  in  its  frame  of 
shining  hair.  "We'll  have  her  sitting  up  now 
before  long. ' ' 

Pop's  whole  aspect  brightened. 

"Ef  Sal  onct  begins  to  git  well,  can't  none  of 
'em  beat  her, ' '  he  said  proudly. 

"Have  you  any  other  children?"  Miss 
Fletcher  asked. 

"Lord,  yes,"  said  Pop,  "heaps  of  'em. 
Thar's  Ted  an'  Larkin,  an'  Gus, — they  wuz  all 
kilt  in  feud  fights.  An'  Burt  an'  Jim, — they're 
in  jail  in  Jackson  fer  moonshinin'.  Four  more 
died  when  they  wuz  babies.  An '  they  ain  't  nary 
a  one  at  home  now  but  jes'  Sal." 

"How  old  is  she?" 

'  '  Seventeen  or  eighteen,  mebbe. ' ' 

"And  she  tells  me  she  has  never  been  to 
school. ' ' 

"Thar  warn't  no  needcessity, "  said  Pop  com- 
placently, taking  a  long  twist  of  tobacco  from 
his  pocket.  "Sal  don't  need  no  larnin'.  She's 

74 


"POP" 

pearler  then  most  gals  thet's  got  book  sense. 
You  show  me  ary  one  of  these  gals  round  here 
thet  kin  spin  an'  weave  the  cloth  to  mek  ther 
own  dresses,  thet  kin  mold  candles,  an'  mek 
soap,  an'  hoe  terbaccy,  an'  handle  a  rifle  good 
ez  a  man." 

"But,  Mr.  Hawkins,"  insisted  Miss  Fletcher, 
"there  are  better  things  than  those  for  us  to 
learn.  Haven't  you  ever  felt  the  need  of  an 
education  yourself  ? ' ' 

Pop  looked  at  her  suspiciously:  "Look 
a-here,  young  woman.  I'm  nigh  on  to  sev- 
enty. I  never  hed  a  doctor  but  onct  in  my  life, 
an'  then  he  chopped  my  arm  off  when  it  might 
hev  got  well  whar  it  wuz.  I  kin  plow,  an'  fell 
trees,  an'  haul  wood.  Thar  ain't  a  log-rollin' 
ner  a  house-raisin'  in  our  neck  of  the  woods 
thet  Jeb  Hawkins  ain't  sent  fer.  I  kin  h'ist  a 
barrel  with  the  best  of  'em,  and  shake  up  Ole 
Dan  Tucker  ez  peart  ez  the  next  one.  Now  how 
about  yer  scholards?  This  here  horspittle  is 
full  of  'em.  Pale-faced,  spindly-legged,  nerve- 
jerking  young  fellows  thet  has  spent  ther  fust 

75 


"POP" 

twenty  years  gittin'  larnin',  an*  ther  next 
twenty  gittin'  over  hit.  Me  an'  Sal  will  keep 
to  the  open ! ' ' 

But  Sally  was  not  so  confident.  As  her 
strength  began  to  return  she  took  a  growing 
interest  in  all  that  went  on  around  her,  asking 
eager,  intelligent  questions  and  noting  with  wist- 
ful curiosity  the  speech  and  manners  of  the 
nurses  who  served  her.  She  was  a  raw  recruit 
from  Nature,  unsophisticated,  illiterate.  Under 
a  bondage  of  poverty  and  drudgery  she  had  led 
her  starved  life  in  the  mountain  fastnesses ;  but 
now  she  had  opened  her  eyes  on  a  new  and  unex- 
pected world. 

' '  How  do  you  go  about  gittin '  a  larnin '  I "  she 
ventured  at  last  to  ask  one  of  the  friendly 
nurses.  ' '  Can 't  you  fetch  me  up  some  of  them 
thar  picter  books  f ' ' 

For  hours  after  this  she  pored  over  her  new 
treasures,  until  one  day  Miss  Fletcher  brought 
her  a  primer,  and  the  seventeen-year-old  girl 
grappled  for  the  first  time  with  the  alphabet. 
After  that  she  was  loath  to  have  the  book  out 
of  her  hand,  going  painfully  and  slowly  over  the 

76 


"POP" 

lessons,  mastering  each  in  turn  with  patient 
perseverance. 

Pop  viewed  this  proceeding  with  disfavor. 
He  seemed  to  sense  the  entering  wedge  that  was 
to  separate  her  from  him.  His  pride  in  her 
accomplishment  was  overshadowed  by  his  jeal- 
ousy, and  when  she  was  able  to  read  a  whole 
page  and  attempted  to  explain  the  intricate 
process  to  him,  he  was  distinctly  cast  down. 
He  left  the  hospital  that  afternoon  for  the  first 
time,  and  was  gone  until  dusk.  When  he  re- 
turned he  carried  a  bunch  of  faded  wild  flowers 
that  he  had  tramped  two  miles  in  the  country 
to  get  for  his  girl. 

May  dragged  into  June,  and  still  they  were 
kept  at  the  hospital.  The  old  man  became  as 
restless  as  a  caged  animal;  he  paced  the  corri- 
dors for  hours  at  a  time  and  his  eyes  grew  fur- 
tive and  defiant.  He,  who  had  lived  out  of  sight 
of  the  smoke  from  his  nearest  neighbor's  chim- 
neys, who  had  spent  his  life  in  the  vast,  still 
solitudes  of  the  hills,  was  incredibly  lonely  here 
among  his  fellow  men. 

"If  Pop  has  to  stay  here  much  longer,  I'm 
77 


"POP" 

afraid  he'll  smash  the  furniture,"  said  the 
night  nurse  who,  like  everybody  else  in  the 
ward,  had  grown  interested  in  the  old  man. 
"He  packs  his  things  every  morning  before  the 
doctor  comes,  only  to  unpack  them  after  he 
leaves." 

"The  confinement  is  telling  on  him,"  said 
Miss  Fletcher.  "I  wish  for  his  sake  they  could 
start  home  to-day.  But  I  do  hate  to  see  Sally 
go !  The  girl  is  getting  her  first  taste  of  civili- 
zation, and  I've  never  seen  anyone  so  eager  to 
learn.  We  have  to  take  the  books  away  from 
her  every  day,  and  when  she  can't  study  she 
begs  to  be  allowed  to  roll  bandages.  The  third 
day  she  sat  up  she  wanted  to  help  nurse  the  other 
patients. 

"I  am  afraid  we  have  spoiled  her  for  hoeing 
tobacco,  and  planting  corn,"  said  the  night 
nurse. 

"I  hope  so,"  Miss  Fletcher  answered  fer- 
vently. 

It  was  nearly  the  last  of  June  when  the  doctor 
dismissed  his  patient.  '  '  This  doesn  't  mean  that 
she  is  well,"  he  warned  Pop.  "You  will  have 

78 


"POP" 

to  be  careful  of  her  for  a  long  time.  She  has 
worked  too  hard  for  a  growing  girl,  and  she's 
not  as  strong  now  as  she  was." 

"She  will  be!"  Pop  responded  confidently. 
' '  That  thar  gal  is  made  outen  iron !  Her  maw 
was  afore  her.  Liza  wuz  my  third  wife,  an' 
she'd  borned  six  or  seven  children,  when  she 
died  at  thirty-five,  an',  by  Joshuy,  she'd  never 
once  hed  a  doctor  in  all  her  life!" 

Pop's  joy  over  their  dismissal  was  slightly 
dimmed  by  Sally's  reception  of  the  news.  He 
saw  her  draw  a  long  breath  and  bite  her  lips ; 
then  he  saw  what  he  had  never  seen  since  she 
was  a  baby,  two  large  tears  gather  slowly  in  her 
eyes  and  roll  down  on  the  pillow.  He  watched 
them  in  amazement. 

"Sal,  whut  ails  ye?"  he  asked  anxiously, 
after  the  doctor  was  gone. 

"I  want  to  git  a  larnin'!"  she  broke  out.  "I 
don 't  want  to  go  back  to  the  hills. ' ' 

Instantly  the  old  man's  face,  which  had  been 
tender,  hardened  to  a  mask  of  fury. 

"That  passel  of  fool  women's  been  workin'  on 
ye,"  he  cried  hoarsely,  "larnin',  larnin',  thet's 

79 


"POP" 

all  they  know.  Ain  't  the  Fork  good  enough  f  er 
ye?  Ain't  the  cabin  whar  yer  paw,  an'  yer 
grandpaw,  an'  yer  great-grandpaw  was  borned 
good  enough  for  ye?" 

"Yes,  Pop,  yes!"  she  gasped,  terrified  at  the 
storm  she  had  raised.  "I'm  a-goin'  back  with 
you.  Don 't  tek  on  so,  Pop,  I  'm  a-goin ' ! " 

But  the  tempest  was  raging,  and  the  old  man 
got  up  and  strode  angrily  up  and  down  the 
small  room,  filling  the  air  with  his  indignation. 

"I  should  say  you  wuz  goin'  back!  I'd  like 
to  see  any  of  'em  try  to  keep  you.  They'd  like 
to  make  one  o'  them  dressed-up  doll  women 
outen  you!  You're  goin'  back  with  me  to  the 
Fork,  an'  ef  thar's  ever  any  more  nussin'  er 
doctorin'  to  do,  I'm  a-goin'  to  do  hit.  I've 
nussed  three  women  on  their  deathbeds,  an' 
when  your  time  comes  I  'low  I  kin  handle  you 
too." 

Then  his  mood  changed  suddenly,  and  he  sat 
down  by  the  bed. 

"Sal,"  he  said  almost  persuasively,  "you'll 
git  over  this  here  foolishness.  Ag 'in '  fall  you  '11 
be  a-cappin  corn,  an'  a-roastin'  sweet  pertatoes, 

80 


"POP" 

an'  singin'  them  ole  ballarts  along  with  the 
Hicks  gals,  an'  Cy  West,  an'  Bub  Holly.  An' 
I'll  tote  you  behind  me  on  the  beast  over  the 
Ridge  to  the  Baptist  Meetin'  House  the  very 
next  feet-washin'  they  hev.  Jes'  think  how 
good  hit's  goin'  to  be  to  see  the  sun  a-risin'  over 
Ole  Baldy,  an '  to  hev  room  to  stretch  an '  breathe 
in.  Seems  ez  if  I  hain't  been  able  to  git  my 
lungs  full  of  wind  sense  I  left  Jackson." 

"I  know  it,  Pop,"  Sally  said  miserably. 
'  *  You  growed  old  in  the  hills  afore  you  ever  seen 
the  Settlements.  But  sence  I  got  a  sight  of 
whut  folks  is  a-doin'  down  here,  'pears  like  I 
can't  be  reconciled  to  goin'  back.  'Tain't  the 
work  back  home,  nor  the  lonesomeness,  tho '  the 
Lord  knows  the  only  folks  thet  ever  does  pass 
is  when  they're  totin'  deads  down  the  creek  bot- 
tom. Hit's  the  feelin'  of  bein'  shet  off  from  my 
chanct.  Ef  I  could  git  a  larnin'  I  wouldn't  ask 
nothin'  better  then  to  go  back  an'  pass  it  along. 
When  I  see  these  here  gals  a-larnin '  how  to  holp 
the  sick,  an'  keer  fer  babies,  an'  doctor  folks,  I 
lay  here  an'  steddy  'bout  all  the  good  I  could  do 
back  home  ef  I  only  knowed  how. ' ' 

81 


"POP" 

"You  do  know  how,"  Pop  declared  vocifer- 
ously; "ain't  you  bin  a-lookin'  after  folks  thet's 
ailin'  around  the  Fork  fer  a  couple  of  years  er 
more?  Ez  fer  these  new-fangled  doetorin's, 
they  won't  nary  one  ov  'em  do  the  good  yarbs 
will.  I'd  ruther  trust  bitter-goldenseal  root  to 
cure  a  ailment  than  all  the  durn  physic  in  this 
here  horspittle.  I  ben  a-studyin'  these  here 
doctors,  an'  I  don't  take  much  stock  in  'em; 
instid  of  workin'  on  a  organ  thet  gets  twisted, 
they  ups  and  draws  hit.  Now  the  Lord 
A 'mighty  put  thet  air  pertickler  thing  in  you  fer 
some  good  reason,  an'  ther's  bound  to  be  a  hitch 
in  the  machinery  when  hit's  took  out.  Hit's  a 
marvel  to  me  some  of  these  here  patients  ain't 
a  amblin'  round  on  all  fours  from  what's  been 
did  to  their  insides!" 

"But  think  whut  the  doctor  did  fer  me," 
urged  Sally. 

"I  ain't  fergittin',"  Pop  said  suddenly,  "an' 
I've  paid  'em  fer  hit.  But  ef  they  calkerlate  on 
yer  takin'  root  here,  they're  treein'  the  wrong 
possum.  You're  a-goin'  home  along  o'  me  to- 
morrow." 

82 


That  afternoon  he  left  the  hospital,  and  sev- 
eral hours  later  was  seen  walking  up  Monument 
Street  with  his  arm  full  of  bundles. 

"I  believe  he's  been  buying  clothes  to  take 
Sally  home  in!"  said  one  of  the  nurses,  who 
was  watching  him  from  an  upper  window.  '  '  He 
asked  me  this  morning  if  I  knew  a  place  where 
he  could  buy  women's  togs." 

"It's  a  shame  he  won't  let  the  girl  stay," 
said  Miss  Fletcher.  "I  have  been  talking  to  the 
superintendent,  and  she  is  quite  willing  to  let 
her  do  light  work  around  the  hospital  and  pick 
up  what  training  she  can.  I  should  be  glad 
enough  to  look  after  her,  and  there's  a  good 
night  school  two  blocks  over." 

"Why  don't  you  talk  to  the  old  man?"  urged 
the  nurse.  "You  are  the  only  one  who  has  ever 
been  able  to  do  anything  with  him.  Perhaps 
you  could  make  him  see  what  an  injustice  he  is 
doing  the  girl." 

"I  believe  I'll  try,"  said  Miss  Fletcher. 

The  next  morning,  when  she  came  on  duty,  she 
found  Sally's  bed  the  repository  of  a  strange 
assortment  of  wearing  apparel.  A  calico  dress 

83 


"POP" 

of  pronounced  hue,  a  large  lace  jabot,  and  a 
small  pair  of  yellow  kid  gloves  were  spread  out 
for  inspection. 

"I  knowed  they  wuz  too  leetle,"  Pop  was  say- 
ing, as  he  carefully  smoothed  the  kid  fingers, 
"but  I  'lowed  you  could  kerry  'em  in  yer  hand." 

There  was  an  unusual  eagerness  in  his  hard 
face,  an  evident  desire  to  make  up  to  Sally  in 
one  way  for  what  he  was  depriving  her  of  in 
another.  He  was  more  talkative  than  at  any 
time  since  coming  to  the  hospital,  and  he  dilated 
with  satisfaction  on  the  joys  that  awaited  their 
home-coming. 

"May  I  have  a  little  talk  with  you  before  you 
go?"  asked  Miss  Fletcher. 

He  flashed  on  her  a  quick  look  of  suspicion, 
but  her  calm,  impassive  face  told  him  nothing.' 
She  was  a  pretty  woman,  and  Pop  had  evidently 
recognized  the  fact  from  the  start. 

"Wai,  I'll  come  now,"  he  said,  rising  reluc- 
tantly; "but,  Sal,  you  git  yer  clothes  on  an'  be 
ready  to  start  time  I  git  back.  I  ain't  anxious 
to  stay  round  these  here  diggin's  no  longer 'n 
need  be.  Besides,  that  thar  railroad  car  mought 

84 


"POP" 

take  a  earlier  start.  You  be  ready  ag'in  I  git 
back." 

For  an  hour  and  a  quarter  Miss  Fletcher  was 
shut  up  in  the  linen  closet  with  the  old  man. 
What  arguments  and  persuasions  she  brought 
to  bear  are  not  known.  Occasionally  his  voice 
could  be  heard  in  loud  and  angry  dissent,  but 
when  at  last  they  emerged  he  looked  like  some 
old  king  of  the  jungle  that  has  been  captured 
and  tamed.  His  shoulders  drooped,  his  one  arm 
hung  limply  by  his  side,  and  his  usually  restless 
eyes  were  bent  upon  the  floor. 

Without  a  word  he  strode  back  to  the  room 
where  Sally  in  her  misfit  clothes  was  waiting 
for  him. 

"Come  along  o'  me,  Sal,"  he  commanded 
sternly  as  he  picked  up  his  carpet  sack.  * l  Leave 
your  things  whar  they  be. ' ' 

Silently  they  passed  out  of  the  ward,  down 
the  stairway,  through  the  long  vaultlike  corri- 
dor to  the  superintendent's  room.  Once  there 
he  flung  back  his  rusty  coat  and  ripped  the  last 
bill  but  one  from  its  hiding  place. 

"That  thar  is  fer  my  gal,"  he  said  defiantly 
85 


"POP" 

to  the  superintendent.  ' '  She  11  git  one  the  fust 
day  of  every  month.  Give  her  the  larnin'  she's 
so  hell-bent  on,  stuff  her  plumb  full  on  it.  An' 
ef  you  let  ennything  happen  to  her" — his  brows 
lowered  threateningly — *  *  I  '11  come  back  an '  blow 
yer  whole  blame'  horspittle  into  eternity!" 

"  Pop ! "  Sally  pleaded,  "  Pop ! " 

But  his  emotions  were  at  high  tide  and  he  did 
not  heed  her.  Pushing  her  roughly  aside,  he 
strode  back  to  the  entrance  hall,  and  was  about 
to  pick  up  his  carpet  sack  when  his  gaze  was 
suddenly  arrested  by  the  great  marble  figure 
that  bends  its  thorn-crowned  head  in  pity  over 
the  unhappy  and  the  pain-racked  mortals  that 
pass  beneath  its  outstretched  hands. 

"You  ain't  goin'  to  leave  me  like  this,  Pop?" 
begged  Sally.  "Ef  you  take  it  so  hard,  I'll  go 
back,  an'  I'll  go  willin'.  Jus'  say  the  word, 
Pop,  an 'I '11  go!" 

The  old  mountaineer's  one  hand  closed  on  the 
girl's  bony  arm  in  a  tight  clasp,  his  shoulders 
heaved,  and  his  massive  features  worked,  but  his 
gaze  never  left  the  calm,  pitying  face  of  the 
Saviour  overhead.  He  had  followed  his  child 

86 


"POP" 

without  a  tremor  into  the  Valley  of  the  Shadow 
of  Death,  but  at  the  entrance  of  this  new  life, 
where  he  must  let  her  go  alone,  his  courage 
failed  and  his  spirit  faltered.  His  dominant 
will,  hitherto  the  only  law  he  knew,  was  in  mor- 
tal combat  with  a  new  and  unknown  force  that 
for  the  first  time  had  entered  his  life. 

For  several  minutes  he  stood  thus,  his  con- 
flicting passions  swaying  him,  as  opposing  gales 
shake  a  giant  forest  tree.  Then  he  resolutely 
loosened  his  grip  on  the  girl's  arm  and  taking 
up  his  burden,  without  a  word  or  a  backward 
glance,  set  his  face  toward  the  hills,  leaving  an 
awkward,  wistful  girl  watching  him  with  her 
tears  only  half  obscuring  the  vision  that  was 
already  dawning  for  her. 


87 


HOODOOED 


HOODOOED 

GORDON  LEE  SURRENDER  JONES 
lay  upon  what  he  confidently  claimed  fo 
be  his  death-bed.  Now  and  again  he  glanced 
furtively  at  the  cabin  door  and  listened.  Being 
assured  that  nobody  was  coming,  he  cautiously 
extricated  a  large  black  foot  from  the  bed- 
clothes, and,  holding  it  near  the  candle,  labori- 
ously tied  a  red  string  about  one  of  his  toes. 
He  was  a  powerful  negro,  with  a  close-cropped 
bullet-head,  a  massive  bulldog  jaw,  and  a  pair 
of  incongruously  gentle  and  credulous  eyes. 

According  to  his  own  diagnosis,  he  was  suf- 
fering from  "asmy,  bronketers,  pneumony,  grip, 
diabeters,  and  old  age. ' '  The  last  affliction  was 
hardly  possible,  as  Gordon  Lee  was  probably 
born  during  the  last  days  of  the  Civil  War, 
though  he  might  have  been  eighty,  for  all  he 
knew  to  the  contrary.  In  addition  to  his  ac- 

91 


HOODOOED 

knowledged  ailments,  there  was  one  he  cher- 
ished in  secret.  It  was  by  far  the  most  mys- 
terious and  deadly  of  the  lot,  a  malady  to  be 
pondered  on  in  the  dark  watches  of  the  night,  to 
be  treated  with  weird  rites  and  ceremonies,  and 
to  be  cured  only  by  some  specialist  versed  in  the 
deepest  lore  of  witchcraft ;  for  Gordon  Lee  knew 
beyond  the  faintest  shadow  of  a  doubt  that  a 
hoodoo  had  been  laid  upon  him. 

Of  course,  like  most  of  his  race,  he  had  had 
experiences  in  this  line  before ;  but  this  was  dif- 
ferent. In  fact,  it  was  no  less  a  calamity  than 
a  cricket  in  his  leg.  Just  how  the  cricket  got 
into  his  leg  was  a  matter  too  deep  for  human 
speculation;  but  the  fact  that  it  was  there,  and 
that  it  hopped  with  ease  from  knee  to  ankle, 
and  made  excruciating  excursions  into  his  five 
toes,  was  as  patent  as  the  toes  themselves. 

What  complicated  the  situation  for  Gordon 
Lee  was  that  he  could  not  discuss  this  painful 
topic  with  his  wife.  Amanda  Jones  had  em- 
barked on  the  higher  education,  and  had  long 
ago  thrown  overboard  her  old  superstitions. 
She  was  not  only  Queen  Mother  of  the  Sisters  of 

92 


HOODOOED 

the  Order  of  the  Star,  and  an  officer  in  various 
church  societies,  but  she  was  also  a  cook  in  the 
house  of  Mrs.  James  Bertram,  President  of  the 
State  Federation  of  Women's  Clubs.  The 
crumbs  of  wisdom  that  fell  from  the  lips  of  the 
great  Mrs.  Bertram  were  carefully  preserved 
by  Amanda,  and  warmed  over,  with  sundry  gar- 
nishings  of  her  own,  for  the  various  colored 
clubs  to  which  she  belonged. 

Gordon  Lee  had  succeeded  in  adorning  only 
three  toes  when  he  heard  a  quick  step  on  the 
gravel  outside  and,  hastily  getting  his  foot 
under  cover,  he  settled  back  on  the  pillow,  closed 
his  eyes,  and  began  laboriously  inhaling  with  a 
wheeze  and  exhaling  with  a  groan. 

The  candle  sputtered  as  the  door  was  flung 
open,  and  a  small,  energetic  mulatto  woman, 
twenty  years  Gordon  Lee 's  junior,  bustled  into 
the  room. 

"Good  Ian'!  but  it's  hot  in  heah!"  she  ex- 
claimed, flinging  up  a  window.  "I  got  a  good 
mind  to  nail  this  heah  window  down  f 'om  the 
top." 

"I  done  open'  de  door  fer  a  spell  dis  mawn- 
93 


HOODOOED 

in',"  said  Gordon  Lee,  sullenly,  pulling  the  bed- 
clothes tighter  about  his  neck.  "Lettin'  in  all 
dis  heah  night  air  meks  my  eyes  sore. ' ' 

The  bedclothes,  having  thus  been  drawn  up 
from  the  bottom  of  the  bed,  left  the  patient's 
feet  exposed,  and  Amanda  immediately  spied  the 
string-encircled  toes. 

"Gordon  Lee  Surrender  Jones,"  she  ex- 
claimed indignantly,  "has  that  there  meddlin' 
ol'  Aunt  Kizzy  been  here  again?" 

Gordon  Lee's  eyes  blinked,  and  his  thick, 
sullen  under  lip  dropped  half  an  inch  lower. 

"Ef  you  think,"  continued  Amanda,  furi- 
ously, "that  I'm  a-goin'  to  keep  on  a-workin' 
my  fingers  to  the  bone,  lak  I  been  doin'  fer  the 
past  year,  a-payin'  doctors'  bills,  an'  buyin' 
medicines  fer  you,  while  you  lay  up  in  this  here 
bed  listenin'  to  the  fool  talk  of  a  passel  of  igne- 
ramuses,  you's  certainly  mistaken.  Hit's  bad 
enough  to  have  you  steddyin'  up  new  ailments 
ever'  day,  without  folks  a-puttin'  'em  in  yer 
head.  "Whut  them  strings  tied  on  yer  toes  f  er?  " 

Gordon  Lee's  wheezing  had  ceased  under  his 
severe  mental  strain,  and  now  he  lay  blinking  at 

94 


HOODOOED 

the  ceiling,  utterly  unable  to  give  a  satisfactory 
answer. 

"Aunt  Kizzy  jes  happen'  long,"  he  muttered 
presently.  "Ain't  no  harm  in  a'  ol'  frien' 
passin'  de  time  ob  day." 

"Whut  them  strings  tied  on  yer  toes  fer?" 
repeated  Amanda  with  fearful  insistence. 

Gordon  Lee,  pushed  to  the  extreme,  and  know- 
ing by  experience  that  he  was  as  powerless  in 
the  hands  of  his  diminutive  wife  as  an  elephant 
in  those  of  his  keeper,  weakly  capitulated. 

' l  Aunt  Kizzy  'low ' — I  ain  't  savin '  she 's  right ; 
Ps  jes  tellin'  you  whut  she  'low' — Aunt  Kizzy 
'low'  dat,  'cordin'  to  de  symtems,  she  say', — 
an'  I  ain't  sayin'  I  b'lieve  her, — but  she  say' 
hit  looks  to  her  lak  I's  sufferin'  f 'om  a  hoodoo." 

"A  hoodoo!"  Amanda's  scorn  was  un- 
bounded. "Ef  it  don't  beat  my  time  how  some 
of  you  niggers  hang  on  to  them  ol'  notions. 
'Tain't  nothin'  't  all  but  ignorant  superstition. 
Ain't  I  tol'  you  that  a  hunderd  times?" 

"Yes,  you  done  tol'  me,"  said  Gordon  Lee, 
putting  up  a  feeble  defense.  "You  all  time 
quoilin'  an'  runnin'  down  conjurin'  an'  bad- 

95 


HOODOOED 

luck  signs  an'  all  de  nigger  superstitions;  but 
you 's  quick  'nough  to  tek  up  all  dese  heah  white 
superstitions/' 

"How  you  mean!"  demanded  Amanda. 

Gordon  Lee,  flattered  at  having  any  remark 
of  his  noticed,  proceeded  to  elaborate. 

"I  mean  all  dis  heah  talk  'bout  hits  bein'  bad 
luck  to  sleep  wid  de  windows  shet,  an '  bout  flies 
carrying  disease,  an'  'bout  worms  gittin'  in  de 
milk  ef  you  leave  it  settin'  roun'  unkivered." 

"Not  worms,"  corrected  Amanda;  "germs. 
That  ain't  no  superstition;  that's  a  scientific 
fac'.  They  is  so  little  you  don't  see  'em;  but 
they's  there  all  right.  Mis'  Bertram  says 
they's  ever 'where — in  the  water,  in  the  air, 
crawlin '  up  the  very  walls. ' ' 

Gordon  Lee  looked  fearfully  at  the  ceiling, 
as  if  he  expected  an  immediate  attack  from  that 
direction. 

"I  ain't  sayin'  dey  ain't,  Amanda.  Come  to 
think  of  hit,  seems  lak  I  'member  'em  scrunchin' 
'g'inst  my  teeth  when  I  eats.  I  ain't  sayin' 
nothin'  't  all  'bout  white  folks  superstitions,— 
I  'spec'  dey's  true,  ebery  one  ob  'em, — but  hit 

96 


HOODOOED 

look'  lak  you  oughtn't  to  shet  yer  min'  ag'inst 
de  colored  signs  dat  done  come  down  f 'om  yer 
maw  an'  yer  paw,  an'  yer  gran 'maw  an'  gran'- 
paw  fer  back  as  Adam.  I  'spec'  Adam  hisself 
was  conjured.  Lak  as  not  de  sarpint  done 
tricked  him  into  regalin'  hisself  wid  dat  apple. 
But  I  s  'pose  you  'd  lay  hit  on  de  germs  whut  was 
disportin '  deyselves  on  de  apple.  But  dey  ain  't 
no  use  in  'sputin'  dat  p'int,  'ca'se  de  fac'  re- 
mains dat  de  apple's  done  et." 

"I  ain't  astin'  you  to  dispute  nothin',"  cried 
Amanda,  by  this  time  in  a  high  state  of  indig- 
nation. "I'm  a-talkin'  scientific  fac's,  an' 
you're  talkin'  nigger  foolishness.  The  igno- 
rance jes  nachully  oozes  outen  the  pores  o '  your 
skin." 

Gordon  Lee,  thus  arraigned,  lay  with  con- 
tracted brows  and  protruding  lips,  nursing  his 
wrongs,  while  Amanda  disappeared  into  the  ad- 
joining room,  there  to  vent  her  wrath  on  the 
pots  and  pans  about  the  stove. 

Despite  the  fact  that  it  was  after  eight  o  'clock 
and  she  had  been  on  her  feet  all  day,  she  set 
about  preparing  the  evening  meal  for  her  hus- 

97 


HOODOOED 

band  with  all  the  care  she  had  bestowed  on  the 
white  folks'  supper. 

Soon  the  little  cabin  was  filled  with  the  sav- 
ory odor  of  bacon,  and  when  the  corn  batter- 
cakes  began  to  sizzle  promisingly,  and  she 
flipped  them  over  dexterously  with  a  fork,  Gor- 
don Lee  forgot  his  ill  humor,  and  through  the 
door  watched  the  performance  with  growing 
eagerness. 

"Git  yerself  propped  up,"  Amanda  called 
when  the  cakes  were  encircled  with  crisp,  brown 
edges.  "I'll  git  the  bread-board  to  put  acrost 
yer  knees.  You  be  eatin'  this  soup  while  I 
dishes  up  the  bacon  an'  onions.  How'd  you  like 
to  have  a  little  jam  along  with  yer  apple- 
dumplin '  ? " 

Gordon  Lee,  sitting  up  in  bed  with  this  liberal 
repast  spread  on  the  bread-board  across  his 
knees,  and  his  large,  bare  feet,  with  their  pink 
adornments,  rising  like  ebony  tombstones  at  the 
foot  of  the  bed,  forgot  his  grievance. 

* '  Jam ! "  he  repeated.  < '  Well,  dat  dere  Sally 
Arm  Slocum's  dumplin's  may  need  jam,  er 
Maria  Johnsing's,  but  dis  heah  dumplin'  is  com- 

98 


HOODOOED 

plete  in  hitself.  Ef  dey  ever  was  a  pusson  dat 
could  assemble  a'  apple-dumplin'  so's  you  swol- 
ler  hit  'most  afore  hit  gits  to  yer  mouf,  dat 
pusson  is  you." 

Harmony  being  thus  restored,  and  the  patient 
having  emptied  all  the  dishes  before  him, 
Amanda  proceeded  to  clear  up.  Her  small, 
energetic  figure  moved  briskly  from  one  room 
to  the  other,  and  as  she  worked  she  sang  in  a 
low,  chanting  tone : 

"You  got  a  shoe, 

I  got  a  shoe, 

All  God's  children  got  shoes. 
When  I  git  to  heaben,  gwine  try  on  my  shoes, 
Gwine  walk  all  over  God's  heaben,  heaben,  heaben. 
Ever 'body  's   talkin '    *bout   heaben   ain't    gwine   to 

heaben — 
Heaben,  heaben,  gwine  walk  all  over  God's  heaben. " 

But  the  truce,  thus  declared,  was  only  tem- 
porary. During  the  long  days  that  Amanda 
was  away  at  her  work,  Gordon  Lee  had  nothing 
to  do  but  lie  on  his  back  and  think  of  his  ail- 
ments. For  twenty  years  he  had  worked  in  an 
iron  foundry,  where  his  muscles  were  as  active 
as  his  brain  was  passive.  Now  that  the  case 

99 


HOODOOED 

was  reversed,  the  result  was  disastrous.  From 
an  attack  of  rheumatism  a  year  ago  he  had 
developed  an  amazing  number  of  complaints,  all 
of  which  finally  fell  under  the  head  of  the  dread 
hoodoo. 

Aunt  Kizzy,  the  object  of  Amanda's  special 
scorn,  he  held  in  great  reverence.  She  had  been 
a  familiar  figure  in  his  mother 's  chimney-corner 
when  he  was  a  boy,  and  to  doubt  her  knowledge 
of  charms  and  conjuring  was  to  him  nothing 
short  of  heresy.  She  knew  the  value  of  every 
herb  and  simple  that  grew  in  Hurricane  Hollow. 
She  was  an  adept  in  getting  people  into  the 
world  and  getting  them  out  of  it.  She  was  con- 
stantly consulted  about  weaning  calves,  and 
planting  crops  according  to  the  stage  of  the 
moon.  And  for  everything  in  the  heavens  above 
and  the  earth  beneath  and  the  waters  under  the 
earth  she  "had  a  sign." 

Since  Gordon  Lee 's  illness,  she  had  fallen  into 
the  habit  of  dropping  in  to  sit  with  him  at  such 
hours  as  Amanda  would  not  be  there.  She 
would  crouch  over  the  fire,  elbows  on  knees  and 
pipe  in  mouth,  and  regale  him  with  hair-raising 

100 


HOODOOED 

tales  of  "hants"  and  "sperrits"  and  the  part 
she  had  played  in  exorcising  them. 

"Dis  heah  case  ob  yourn,"  she  said  one  day, 
'  '  ain  't  no  ordinary  case.  I  done  worked  on  liz- 
ards in  de  laigs,  but  I  nebber  had  no  'casion  to 
treat  a  cricket  in  de  laig.  Looks  lak  de  cricket 
is  a  more  persistent  animal  dan  de  lizard. 
'Sides,  ez  I  signify  afore,  dis  heah  case  ob  yourn 
ain't  no  ordinary  case." 

"Why — why  ain't  it?"  Gordon  Lee  stam- 
mered apprehensively. 

Aunt  Kizzy  lifted  a  bony  black  hand,  and 
shook  her  turbaned  head  ominously. 

"Dey's  two  kinds  ob  hoodoos,"  she  said,  "de 
libin'  an'  de  daid.  De  daid  ones  is  de  easiest  to 
lift,  'ca'se  dey  answers  to  charms;  but  nobody 
can  lift  a  libin'  hoodoo  'ceptin'  de  one  dat  laid 
hit  on.  I  been  a-steddyin'  an'  a-steddyin',  an* 
de  signs  claim  dat  dis  heah  hoodoo  ob  yourn 
ain't  no  daid  hoodoo." 

By  this  time  the  whites  of  Gordon  Lee 's  eyes 
were  largely  in  evidence,  and  he  raised  himself 
fearfully  on  his  elbow. 

"Aunt  Kizzy,"  he  whispered  hoarsely,  "how 
101 


HOODOOED 

am  I  gwine  to  fin'  out  who  't  is  done  conjured 
me?" 

"By  de  sign  ob  seben,"  she  answered  myste- 
riously. "Fs  gwine  home  an'  work  hit  out,  den 
I  come  back  an'  tell  yer.  Ef  my  'spicions  am 
true,  dat  dis  heah  is  a  libin'  hoodoo,  de  only 
power  in  de  earth  to  tek  it  off  am  ter  git  er  big- 
ger trick  an'  lay  on  de  top  ob  hit.  I'm  gwine 
home  now,  an'  I'll  be  back  inside  de  hour." 

That  night  when  Amanda  returned  home  she 
found  Gordon  Lee  preoccupied  and  silent.  He 
ate  gingerly  of  the  tempting  meal  she  prepared, 
and  refused  to  have  his  bed  straightened  before 
he  went  to  sleep. 

"Huccome  you  put  yer  pillow  on  the  floor!" 
she  asked. 

"I  ain't  believin'  in  feathers,"  he  answered 
sullenly ;  1 1  dey  meks  me  heah  things. ' ' 

In  vain  Amanda  tried  to  cheer  him;  she  re- 
counted the  affairs  of  the  day;  she  gave  him 
all  the  gossip  of  the  Order  of  the  Sisters  of  the 
Star.  He  lay  perfectly  stolid,  his  horizontal 
profile  resembling  a  mountain-range  the  highest 
peak  of  which  was  his  under  lip. 

102 


HOODOOED 

Finally  Amanda's  patience  wore  thin. 

"Whut's  the  matter  with  you,  Gordon  Lee 
Surrender  Jones  ? ' '  she  demanded.  *  '  Whut  you 
mean  by  stickin'  out  yer  lip  lak  a  circus  camel? " 

Now  that  the  opportunity  for  action  had  come, 
he  feared  to  take  advantage  of  it.  Amanda, 
small  as  she  was,  looked  firm  and  determined, 
and  he  knew  by  experience  that  he  was  no  match 
for  her. 

"  'Tain't  fer  you  to  be  astin'  me  whut's  de 
matter/'  he  began  significantly.  "De  glove's 
on  de  other  han'." 

"Whut  you  'sinuatin',  nigger?"  cried 
Amanda,  now  thoroughly  roused. 

"I's  tired  layin'  heah  under  dis  heah  spell," 
complained  Gordon  Lee.  "I  knowed  all  'long 
'twas  a  hoodoo,  but  I  neber  'spicioned  till  to-day 
who  was  'sponsible  fer  hit.  Aunt  Kizzy  tried 
de  test,  an',  'fore  de  Lawd,  hit  p'inted  powerful' 
near  home. ' ' 

Amanda  sank  into  the  one  rocking-chair  the 
cabin  boasted,  and  dropped  her  hands  in  her  lap. 
Her  anger  had  given  place  for  the  moment  to 
sheer  amazement. 

103 


HOODOOED 

"Well,  if  this  ain't  the  beatenest  thing  I  ever 
heard  tell  of  in  all  my  born  days !  Do  you  mean 
to  say  that  that  honery  old  cross-eyed  nigger 
Kizzy  had  the  audacity  to  set  up  before  my  fire, 
in  my  house,  an'  tell  my  husband  I'd  laid  a  spell 
on  him?" 

"Dat's  whut  de  signs  p'int  to,"  said  Gordon 
Lee,  doggedly. 

Amanda  rose,  and  it  seemed  to  him  that  she 
towered  to  the  ceiling.  With  hands  on  hips  and 
head  thrown  back,  she  delivered  herself,  and  her 
voice  rang  with  suppressed  passion. 

"Yas,  I  laid  a  spell  on  yer!  I  laid  a  spell  on 
yer  when  I  let  you  quit  work,  an'  lay  up  in  bed 
wid  nothin'  to  do  but  to  circulate  yer  symtems. 
I  put  a  spell  on  yer  when  I  nuss  you  an'  feed 
you  an '  s  'port  you  an '  spile  the  life  plumb  outen 
you.  I  ain't  claimin'  't  wasn't  rheumatism  in 
the  fust  place,  but  it's  a  spell  now,  all  right — a 
spell  I  did  lay  on  yer,  a  spell  of  laziness  pure  an' 
simple!" 

After  this  outburst  the  relations  were  decid- 
edly strained  in  the  little  cabin  at  the  far  end 
of  Hurricane  Hollow.  Gordon  Lee  persistently 

104 


HOODOOED 

refused  to  eat  anything  his  wife  cooked  for  him, 
depending  upon  the  food  that  Aunt  Kizzy  or 
other  neighbors  brought  in. 

To  Amanda  the  humiliation  of  this  was  acute. 
She  used  every  strategy  to  conciliate  him, 
and  at  last  succeeded  by  bringing  home  some 
pig's  feet.  His  appetite  got  the  better  of  his 
resentment,  and  he  disposed  of  four  with  evi- 
dent relish. 

With  the  approach  of  winter,  however,  other 
and  graver  troubles  developed.  The  rent  of  the 
cabin,  which  had  always  been  promptly  paid  out 
of  Gordon  Lee 's  wages,  had  now  to  come  out  of 
Amanda 's  limited  earnings.  Two  years'  joint 
savings  had  gone  to  pay  the  doctor  and  the 
druggist. 

Amanda  gave  up  the  joys  of  club  life,  and 
began  to  take  in  small  washings,  which  she  did 
at  night.  Gordon  Lee,  surrounded  by  every  lux- 
ury save  that  of  approbation,  continued  to  lie  on 
his  back  in  the  white  bed  and  nurse  his  halluci- 
nations. 

"  'Mandy,"  he  said  one  morning  as  she  was 
going  to  work,  " wished  you'd  ast  Marse  Jim  ef 

105 


HOODOOED 

lie  got  a'  ol'  pair  of  pants  he  could  spare  me." 

Her  face  brightened. 

" You  fixin'  to  git  up,  Honey ?"  she  asked 
hopefully. 

' '  No,  I 's  jes  collectin '  ob  my  grave-clothes, ' ' 
said  Gordon  Lee.  "Dere's  a  pair  ob  purple 
socks  in  de  bottom  drawer,  an'  a  b'iled  shirt  in 
de  wardrobe.  But  I  been  layin'  heah  steddyin' 
'bout  dat  shirt.  Hit's  got  Marse  Jim's  name 
on  de  tail  of  it,  an'  s'pose  I  git  to  heaben,  an' 
St.  Peter  he  read  de  name  an'  look  hit  up  in  de 
jedgment  book.  He's  'lowable  to  come  to  me 
an'  say,  'Huccome  you  wearin'  dat  shirt?  Dey 
ain't  but  one  James  Bartrum  writ  down  in  de 
book,  an'  he  ain't  no  colored  pusson.'  'Co'se  I 
could  explain,  but  I's  got  'splainin'  'nough  to 
do  when  I  git  to  heaben  widout  dat. ' ' 

Amanda  paused  with  her  hand  on  the  door- 
knob. 

" Marse  Jim '11  beat  you  to  heaben;  that  is,  ef 
he  don't  beat  you  to  the  bad  place  first.  You 
git  that  idea  of  dyin'  outen  yer  mind,  and  you'll 
git  well." 

106 


HOODOOED 

'  '  I  can 't  git  well  till  de  hoodoo 's  lifted.  Aunt 
Kizzy  'lows — " 

But  the  door  was  slammed  before  he  could 
finish. 

The  limit  of  Amanda 's  endurance  was  reached 
about  Christmas-time.  One  gloomy  Sunday 
afternoon  when  she  had  finished  the  numerous 
chores  that  had  accumulated  during  the  week, 
she  started  for  the  coal-shed  to  get  an  armful 
of  kindling. 

Dusk  was  coming  on,  and  Hurricane  Hollow 
had  never  seemed  more  lonesome  and  deserted. 
The  corn-shocks  leaned  toward  one  another  as 
if  they  were  afraid  of  a  common  enemy.  Some- 
where down  the  road  a  dog  howled  dismally. 

Amanda  resolutely  pushed  open  the  door  of 
the  shed,  and  felt  her  way  toward  the  pile  of 
chips.  Suddenly  she  found  her  progress 
blocked  by  a  strange  and  colossal  object.  It 
was  an  oblong  affair,  and  it  stood  on  one  end, 
which  was  larger  than  the  other.  With  grow- 
ing curiosity  she  felt  its  back  and  sides,  and  then 
peered  around  it  to  get  a  front  view.  What  she 

107 


HOODOOED 

saw  sent  her  flying  back  to  the  cabin  with  her 
mouth  open  and  her  limbs  shaking. 

"Gordon  Lee,"  she  cried,  "whose  coffin  is  that 
settin'  in  our  coal-shed? " 

The  candidate  for  the  next  world  looked  very 
much  embarrassed. 

"Well,  'Mandy,"  he  began  lamely,  "I  can't 
say  'zactly  ez  hit's  any  pusson's  jes  yit.  But 
hit's  gwine  be  mine  when  de  summons  comes." 

" Where 'd  you  git  it  at?"  demanded  his  Nem- 
esis. 

His  eyes  shifted  guiltily. 

"De  foundry  boss  done  been  heah  las'  week, 
an'  he  gimme  some  money.  I  'lowed  I  was 
layin'  hit  up  fer  a  rainy  day." 

"An'  you  mean  to  tell  me,"  she  cried,  "that 
you  took  that  money  an'  spent  it  fer  a  coffin,  a 
white  one  with  shiny  handles,  an '  a  satin  bolster 
that'll  done  be  wore  out,  an'  et  up  by  moths, 
'fore  you  ever  git  a  chancet  to  use  it?" 

* '  Couldn  't  you  fix  hit  up  in  terbaccy  er  moth- 
balls ag'in'  de  time  I  need  hit?"  Gordon  Lee 
asked  helplessly. 

But  Amanda  was  too  exasperated  this  time  to 
108 


HOODOOED 

argue  the  matter.  Fifty  dollars '  worth  of  coffin 
in  the  coal-shed  and  fifty  cents'  worth  of  coal  in 
the  bin  constituted  a  situation  that  demanded 
her  entire  attention. 

For  six  months  now  Gordon  Lee  had  remained 
in  bed,  firm  in  the  belief  that  he  could  not  walk 
on  account  of  the  spell  that  had  been  laid  upon 
him.  During  that  time  he  had  come  to  take  a 
luxurious  satisfaction  in  the  interest  his  case 
was  exciting  in  the  neighborhood.  Being  in 
excellent  physical  condition,  he  could  afford  the 
melancholy  joy  of  playing  with  the  idea  of  death. 
He  spent  hours  discussing  the  details  of  his 
funeral,  which  had  assumed  in  his  mind  the 
proportions  of  a  pageant. 

Amanda,  on  the  other  hand,  overworked  and 
anxious,  and  compelled  to  forego  her  lodges  and 
societies,  became  more  and  more  irascible  and 
depressed.  In  some  subtle  way  she  was  aware 
that  the  sympathy  of  the  colored  community 
was  solidly  with  Gordon  Lee.  Nobody  now 
asked  her  how  he  was.  Nobody  came  to  the 
cabin  when  she  was  there,  though  it  was  appar- 
ent that  visitors  were  frequent  during  her  ab- 

109 


HOODOOED 

sence.  Aunt  Kizzy  had  evidently  been  busy  in 
the  neighborhood. 

One  night  Amanda  sat  very  long  over  the 
stove  rolling  her  hair  into  little  wads  about  the 
length  and  thickness  of  her  finger,  then  tightly 
wrapping  each  with  a  stout  bit  of  cord  to  take 
out  the  kink.  When  Gordon  Lee  roused  himself 
now  and  then  to  inquire  suspiciously  what  she 
was  doing,  she  answered  with  ominous  calm. 

"Jes  steddyin',  that's  all." 

Her  meditations  evidently  resulted  in  a  plan 
of  action,  for  the  next  night  she  came  home  from 
her  work  in  a  most  mysterious  and  unusual 
mood.  Gordon  Lee  heard  her  moving  some 
heavy  and  cumbersome  article  across  the  kitchen 
floor,  then  he  saw  her  surreptitiously  put  some- 
thing into  a  tin  can  before  she  presented  herself 
at  the  foot  of  his  bed. 

"  'Mandy,"  he  said,  anxious  to  break  the  si- 
lence, and  distrusting  that  subdued  look  of  ex- 
citement in  her  eyes,  "did  you  bring  me  dat 
possum,  lak  you  'lowed  you  was  gwine  to?" 

Her  lips  tightened. 

"Yes,  I  got  the  possum,  an'  also  some  apples 
110 


HOODOOED 

f er  a  dumplin ' ;  but  before  I  lays  a  stick  to  the 
fire  I'm  goin'  to  say  my  say." 

Gordon  Lee  looked  at  her  with  consternation. 
She  stood  at  the  foot  of  his  bed  as  if  it  were  a 
rostrum,  and  with  an  air  of  detached  dignity 
addressed  him  as  if  he  had  been  the  whole  Order 
of  the  Sisters  of  the  Star. 

"I  done  arrive'  at  a  decision,"  she  declared. 
"I  arrive'  at  it  in  the  watches  of  the  night. 
I'm  goin'  to  cure  you  'cordin'  to  yer  lights  an' 
knowledge.  I'm  goin'  to  lif '  that  spell  ef  I  has 
to  purge  my  immortal  soul  to  do  it." 

"  'Mandy,"  cried  Gordon  Lee,  eagerly,  "you 
mean  to  say  you  gwine  to  remove  the  hoodoo  f" 

"I  am,"  she  said  solemnly.  "I'm  goin'  to 
draw  out  all  yer  miseries  fer  the  rest  of  yer 
life,  indudin'  of  the  cricket  in  yer  leg." 

"  'Mandy,"  he  cried  again  fearfully,  "you 
ain't  gwine  ter  hurt  me  in  no  way,  is  you?" 

1 1  Not  effen  you  do  as  I  tell  you.  But  fust  of 
all  you  got  to  take  the  pledge  of  silence.  What- 
somever  takes  place  heah  in  this  cabin  to-night 
ain't  never  to  be  revealed  till  the  jedgment-day. 
Do  you  swear?" 

Ill 


HOODOOED 

The  big  negro,  fascinated  with  the  mystery, 
and  deeply  impressed  with  his  wife's  manner, 
laid  his  hand  on  the  Bible  and  solemnly  took  the 
oath. 

"Now,"  she  continued  impressively,  "while 
I  go  in  the  kitchen  an'  git  the  supper  started,  I 
want  you  to  ease  yerse'f  outen  the  bed  on  to  the 
floor,  an'  lay  with  yer  head  to  the  north  an'  your 
han's  outspread,  an'  yer  mind  on  the  heabenly 
kingdom. ' ' 

"Air  you  shore  hit  ain't  gwine  hurt  me?" 
again  he  queried. 

"Not  if  you  do  'zactly  like  I  say.  Besides," 
she  added  dryly,  "if  it  comes  to  the  worst,  ain't 
you  ready  an'  waitin'  to  go?" 

"Yas,"  agreed  Gordon  Lee;  "but  I  ain't 
fixin'  to  go  till  I's  sent  fer." 

It  took  not  only  time,  but  courage,  for  him  to 
follow  the  prescribed  directions.  He  had  for  a 
long  time  cherished  the  belief  that  any  exertion 
would  prove  fatal;  but  the  prospect  of  having 
the  hoodoo  removed,  together  with  a  lively  curi- 
osity as  to  what  means  Amanda  would  employ 

112 


HOODOOED 

to  remove  it,  spurred  him  to  persist  despite 
groans,  wheezes,  and  ejaculations. 

Once  stretched  upon  the  floor,  with  his  head 
to  the  north  and  his  arms  extended,  he  encoun- 
tered a  new  difficulty :  his  mind  refused  to  dwell 
upon  the  heavenly  kingdom.  Anxiety  as  to  the 
treatment  he  was  about  to  be  subjected  to  alter- 
nated with  satisfaction  at  the  savory  odors  that 
floated  in  from  the  kitchen.  If  the  ordeal  was 
uncertain,  the  reward  at  least  was  sure. 

After  what  seemed  to  him  an  endless  vigil, 
Amanda  appeared  in  the  doorway.  With  meas- 
ured steps  and  great  solemnity  of  mien,  she 
approached,  holding  in  her  right  hand  a  piece  of 
white  chalk. 

"De  hour  has  come,"  she  chanted.  "With 
this  chalk,  an'  around  this  man,  I  make  the  mark 
of  his  image. ' '  Stooping,  she  began  to  trace  his 
outline  on  the  dull  rag-carpet,  speaking  monoto- 
nously as  she  worked :  l '  Gordon  Lee  Surrender 
Jones,  I  command  all  the  aches  an'  the  pains,  all 
the  miseries  an'  fool  notions,  includin'  the 
cricket  in  yer  leg,  to  pass  outen  yer  real  body 

113 


HOODOOED 

into  this  heah  image  on  the  floor.  Keep  yer 
head  still,  nigger !  I  pass  'em  through  you  into 
yer  symbol,  an'  from  thence  I  draws  'em  out  to 
satisfy  yer  mind  now  and  forever  more,  amen. 
Now  roll  over  to  the  right  an'  watch  what's 
about  to  happen. ' ' 

The  patient  by  this  time  was  so  interested 
that  he  followed  instructions  mechanically.  He 
saw  Amanda  dart  into  the  kitchen  and  emerge 
with  an  object  totally  unfamiliar  to  him.  It  was 
a  heavy,  box-shaped  object,  attached  to  a  long 
handle.  This  she  placed  on  the  chalked  outline 
of  his  right  leg.  Then  she  stood  with  her  eyes 
fixed  on  the  floor  and  solemnly  chanted : 

"Draw,  draw,  'cordin'  to  the  law, 

Lif '  the  hoodoo,  now  I  beg, 
An'  draw  the  cricket 

F'om  this  heah  leg!" 

And  Gordon  Lee,  raised  on  his  elbow,  watch- 
ing with  protruding  eyes,  heard  it  draw!  He 
heard  the  heavy,  panting  breathing  as  Amanda 
ran  the  vacuum  cleaner  over  every  inch  of  the 
chalked  outline,  and  when  she  stopped  and, 
kneeling  beside  the  box,  removed  a  small  bag  of 

114 


HOODOOED 

dust  and  lint,  he  was  not  in  the  least  surprised 
to  see  a  cricket  jump  from  the  debris. 

"Praise  be!"  he  cried  in  sudden  ecstasy. 
"De  pain's  done  lef '  me,  de  spell's  done  lifted!" 

"An*  the  cricket's  done  removed,"  urged 
Amanda,  skilfully  getting  the  machine  out  of 
sight.  "You  seen  it  removed  with  yer  own 
eyes." 

"Wid  my  own  eyes,"  echoed  Gordon  Lee,  still 
in  a  state  of  self -hypnosis. 

"An'  now,"  she  said,  "I'm  go  in'  to  git  that 
supper  ready  jes  as  quick  ez  I  kin." 

"Ain't  you  gwine  help  me  back  in  bed  fust!" 
he  asked  from  where  he  still  lay  on  the  floor. 

"What  fer?"  she  exclaimed.  "Ain't  the 
spell  lifted?  I'm  goin'  to  set  the  table  in  the 
kitchen,  an'  ef  you  wants  any  of  that  possum  an' 
sweet  pertater  an'  that  apple-dumplin '  an'  hard 
sass,  you  got  to  walk  in  there  to  git  em." 

For  ten  minutes  Gordon  Lee  Surrender  Jones 
lay  flat  on  his  back  on  the  floor,  trying  to  trace 
the  course  of  human  events  during  the  last  half- 
hour.  Against  the  dim  suspicion  that  Amanda 
had  in  some  way  outwitted  him  rose  the  stagger- 

115 


HOODOOED 

ing  evidence  of  that  very  live  cricket  that  still 
hopped  about  the  room,  chirping  contentedly. 

Twice  Amanda  spoke  to  him,  but  he  refused 
to  answer.  His  silence  did  not  seem  to  affect 
her  good  spirits,  for  she  continued  her  work, 
singing  softly  to  herself. 

Despite  himself,  he  became  aware  of  the  re- 
frain, and  before  he  knew  it  he  was  going  over 
the  familiar  words  with  her : 

* '  Oh,  chicken-pie  an '  pepper,  oh ! 
Chicken-pie  is  good,  I  know; 
So  is  wattehmillion,  too ; 
So  is  rabbit  in  a  stew ; 
So  is  dumplin  's,  b  'iled  with  squab ; 
So  is  cawn,  b  'iled  on  de  cob ; 
So  is  chine  an '  turkey  breast ; 
So  is  aigs  des  f 'om  de  nest." 

Gordon  Lee  rose  unsteadily.  Holding  to  a 
chair,  he  reached  the  table,  then  the  door, 
through  which  he  shambled,  and  sheepishly  took 
his  old  place  at  the  foot  of  the  table.  Amanda 
outdid  herself  in  serving  him,  emptying  the 
larder  in  honor  of  the  occasion;  but  neither  of 
them  spoke  until  the  apple-dumpling  was 

116 


HOODOOED 

reached.     Then  Gordon  Lee  turned  toward  her 
and  said  confidentially : 

"I  wished  we  knowed  some  corpse  we  could 
sell  dat  coffin  to." 


117 


A  MATTER  OF  FRIENDSHIP 


A  MATTER  OF  FRIENDSHIP 

WHEN  a  jovial  young  person  in  irre- 
proachable pongee,  and  a  wholly  re- 
proachable  brown  topi,  scrambled  up  the  lifting 
gang-plank  of  the  big  Pacific  liner,  setting  sail 
from  Yokohama,  he  was  welcomed  with  acclaim. 
The  Captain  stopped  swearing  long  enough  to 
megaphone  a  greeting  from  the  bridge,  the  First 
Officer  slapped  him  on  the  back,  while  the  half 
dozen  sailors,  tugging  at  the  ropes,  grinned  as 
one  man. 

Three  months  before  this  good  ship  East  India 
had  carried  Frederick  Reynolds  out  to  the  Ori- 
ent and  deposited  him  on  the  alien  soil,  an  un- 
tried youth  of  unimpeachable  morals  with  a 
fatal  facility  for  making  friends. 

The  temporary  transplanting  had  had  a 
strange  and  exotic  effect.  The  East  has  a  way 
of  developing  crops  of  wild  oats  that  have  been 
neglected  in  the  West,  and  by  the  end  of  his 

121 


A  MATTER  OF  FRIENDSHIP 

sojourn  Mr.  Frederick  Reynolds  had  seen  more, 
felt  more,  and  lived  more  than  in  all  of  his  pre- 
vious twenty-four  years  put  together.  He  had 
learned  the  difference  between  a  "straight 
flush"  and  a  "full  house"  under  the  palms  at 
Raffles  Hotel  in  Singapore;  he  had  been  in- 
structed in  the  ways  of  the  wise  in  Shanghai  by 
a  sophisticated  attache  of  the  French  Legation, 
who  imparted  his  knowledge  between  sips  of 
absinthe,  as  he  looked  down  on  the  passing  show 
from  a  teahouse  on  the  Bubbling  Well  Road ;  he 
had  rapturously  listened  to  every  sweet  secret 
that  Japan  had  to  tell,  and  had  left  a  wake  of 
smiles  from  Nagasaki  to  Yokohama. 

In  fact,  in  three  short  months  he  was  fully 
qualified  to  pass  a  connoisseur's  judgment  on  a 
high-ball,  to  hold  his  own  in  a  game  of  poker, 
and  to  carry  on  a  fairly  coherent  flirtation  in 
four  different  languages. 

With  this  newly  acquired  wisdom  he  was  now 
setting  sail  for  home,  having  accomplished  his 
downward  career  with  such  alacrity  that  he  did 
not  at  all  realize  what  had  happened  to  him. 

Nor  did  the  return  voyage  promise  much  in 
122 


A  MATTER  OF  FRIENDSHIP 

the  way  of  silent  meditation  and  timely  repent- 
ance. The  Captain  placed  Reynolds  next  to 
him  at  table,  declaring  that  he  was  like  an  elec- 
tric fan  on  a  sultry  day;  the  Purser,  with  the 
elasticity  of  conscience  peculiar  to  pursers, 
moved  him  from  the  inexpensive  inside  room 
which  he  had  engaged,  to  a  spacious  state-room 
on  the  promenade  deck,  where  sufficient  corks 
were  drawn  nightly  to  make  a  small  life  pre- 
server. 

The  one  person  who  watched  these  proceed- 
ings with  disfavor  was  a  short,  attenuated,  bow- 
legged  Chinaman,  with  a  face  like  a  grotesque 
brass  knocker,  and  a  taciturnity  that  enveloped 
him  like  a  fog. 

On  the  voyage  out,  Tsang  Foo,  the  assistant 
deck  steward,  had  gotten  into  a  fight  with  a 
brother  Chinaman,  and  had  been  saved  from 
dismissal  by  Reynolds 's  timely  intercession  at 
headquarters.  In  dumb  gratitude  for  this  serv- 
ice, he  had  laid  his  celestial  soul  at  the  feet  of 
the  young  American  and  sworn  eternal  alle- 
giance. 

From  the  day  Reynolds  reembarked,  Tsang 's 
123 


A  MATTEE  OF  FEIENDSHIP 

silken,  slippered  feet  silently  followed  him  from 
smoking-room  to  bar,  from  bar  back  to  smoking- 
room.  Whatever  emotion  troubled  the  depths 
of  his  being,  no  sign  of  it  rose  to  his  ageless, 
youthless  face.  But  whether  he  was  silently 
performing  his  duties  on  deck,  or  sitting  on  the 
hatchway  smoking  his  opium,  his  vigilant  eyes 
from  their  long,  narrow  slits  kept  watch. 

For  thirteen  days  the  sun  sparkled  on  the 
blue  waters  of  the  Pacific,  and  favoring  breezes 
gave  every  promise  of  landing  the  East  India 
in  port  with  the  fastest  record  of  the  season. 
Bets  went  higher  and  higher  on  each  day's  run- 
ning, and  the  excitement  was  intense  each  eve- 
ning in  the  smoking-room  when  the  numbers 
most  likely  to  win  the  next  day's  pool  were  auc- 
tioned off  to  the  highest  bidder. 

It  was  the  afternoon  of  the  fourteenth  day, 
thirty-six  hours  out  from  San  Francisco,  that 
Mr.  Frederick  Eeynolds,  who  had  bet  more, 
drunk  more,  talked  more,  and  laughed  more  than 
any  man  on  board,  suddenly  came  to  his  full 
senses.  Then  it  was  that  he  went  quietly  to  his 
luxurious  state-room  with  its  brass  bed  and 

124 


A  MATTER  OF  FRIENDSHIP 

crimson  hangings,  and  took  a  forty-two  caliber 
revolver  from  his  steamer  trunk.  Slipping  a 
cartridge  into  the  cylinder,  he  sat  breathing 
heavily  and  staring  impatiently  before  him. 

From  outside  above  the  roar  of  the  ocean, 
came  the  tramp  of  the  passengers  on  deck,  and 
the  trivial  scraps  of  conversation  that  floated  in 
kept  side-tracking  his  thoughts,  preventing  their 
reaching  the  desired  destination. 

The  world,  which  he  had  sternly  resolved  to 
leave,  seemed  determined  to  stay  with  him  as 
long  as  possible.  He  heard  Glass,  the  actor, 
inquiring  for  him,  and  in  spite  of  himself  he 
felt  flattered;  he  heard  the  pretty  girl  whose 
steamer  chair  was  next  his,  make  a  conditional 
engagement  with  the  high-voiced  army-officer, 
and  he  knew  why  she  left  the  matter  open ;  even 
a  plaintive  old  voice  inquiring  how  long  it  would 
be  before  tea,  caused  him  to  wait  for  the  answer. 

At  last,  as  if  to  present  his  misery  in  embod- 
ied form,  he  produced  a  note-book  and  tried  to 
concentrate  his  attention  upon  the  items  therein 
recorded.  Line  after  line  of  wavering  figures 
danced  in  impish  glee  before  him,  defying  in- 

125 


A  MATTEE  OF  FEIENDSHIP 

spection.  But  at  the  foot  of  the  column,  like 
soldiers  waiting  to  shoot  a  prisoner,  stood  four 
formidable  units  unquestionably  pointing  his 
way  to  doom. 

As  he  looked  at  them  Eeynolds  's  thoughts  got 
back  on  the  main  track  and  rushed  to  a  conclu- 
sion. Tearing  the  leaf  from  the  book,  and 
crushing  it  in  his  hand,  he  jumped  to  his  feet. 
Seized  with  a  fury  of  self -disgust,  he  pulled 
off  his  coat  and  collar,  and  with  the  reckless 
courage  of  a  boy  put  the  mouth  of  the  revolver 
to  his  temple. 

As  he  did  so  the  room  darkened.  He  involun- 
tarily looked  up.  Framed  in  the  circle  of  the 
port-hole  were  the  head  and  shoulders  of  Tsang 
Foo.  Not  a  muscle  of  the  yellow  face  moved, 
not  a  tremor  of  the  slanting  eyelids  showed  sur- 
prise. The  right  hand,  holding  a  bit  of  tow, 
mechanically  continued  polishing  the  brass 
around  the  port-hole,  but  the  left — long,  thin, 
and  with  claw-like  nails,  shot  stealthily  forward 
and  snatched  the  pistol. 

For  a  full  minute  the  polishing  continued, 
then  face  and  figure  vanished,  and  Eeynolds 

126 


A  MATTEE  OF  FRIENDSHIP 

was  left  staring  in  impotent  rage  at  the  empty 
port-hole. 

When  the  room  steward  appeared  in  answer 
to  an  imperative  summons,  he  was  directed  to 
send  Tsang  Foo  to  room  No.  7  at  once. 

Tsang  came  almost  immediately,  bearing  tea 
and  anchovy  sandwiches,  which  he  urbanely 
placed  on  a  camp-stool. 

"  Where's  my  pistol  I"  demanded  Reynolds 
hotly,  holding  to  the  door  to  steady  himself. 

Tsang 's  eyes,  earnest  as  a  dog's,  were  lifted 
to  his : 

"He  fall  overboard, "  he  explained  suavely, 
"me  velly  solly." 

Reynolds  impulsively  lifted  his  arm  to  strike, 
but  a  second  impulse,  engulfing  the  first,  made 
him  turn  and  fling  himself  upon  his  berth,  strug- 
gling to  master  the  heavy  sobs  that  shook  him 
from  head  to  foot. 

The  Chinaman  softly  closed  the  door  and 
slipped  the  bolt,  then  he  dropped  to  a  sitting 
posture  on  the  floor  and  waited. 

When  the  squall  had  passed,  Reynolds  ad- 
dressed his  companion  from  the  depths  of  the 

127 


A  MATTER  OF  FRIENDSHIP 

pillows  in  language  suited  to  his  comprehension. 

"Me  belong  large  fool,  Tsang!"  he  said  sav- 
agely. '  '  Have  drink  too  much.  No  good.  You 
go  'long,  I'm  all  right  now." 

Tsang 's  eye  swept  the  disordered  room  and 
returned  to  the  figure  on  the  bed.  "Suppose 
me  go,"  he  said,  "you  makee  one  hole  in  head?" 

"That's  my  busniess,"  said  Reynolds,  his 
wrath  rekindling.  "You  go  long,  and  get  my 
pistol;  there's  a  good  chap." 

Tsang  did  not  stir;  he  sat  with  his  hands 
clasped  about  his  knees,  and  contemplated  space 
with  the  abstract  look  of  a  Buddha  gazing  into 
Nirvana. 

Reynolds  passed  from  persuasion  to  profanity 
with  no  satisfactory  result.  His  language, 
whether  eloquent  or  fiery,  beat  upon  an  unre- 
sponsive ear.  But  being  in  that  condition  that 
demands  sympathy,  he  found  the  mere  talking  a 
relief,  and  presently  drifted  into  a  recital  of  his 
woes. 

"I'm  up  against  it,  in  the  hole,  you  know, 
much  largee  trouble,"  he  amplified  with  many 
gestures,  sitting  on  the  side  of  his  berth,  and 

128 


A  MATTER  OF  FRIENDSHIP 

pounding  out  excited,  incoherent  phrases  to  the 
impassive  figure  opposite.  "Company  sent  me 
out  to  collect  money.  My  have  spent  all.  No 
can  go  back  home.  Suppose  my  lose  face,  more 
better  die!" 

Tsang  shifted  his  position  and  nodded 
gravely.  Out  of  much  that  was  unintelligible, 
the  last  statement  loomed  clear  and  incontro- 
vertible. 

"I'm  a  thief  I"  burst  out  Reynolds  passion- 
ately, not  to  Tsang  now,  but  to  the  world  at 
large,  "a  plain,  common  thief.  And  the  worst 
of  it  is  there  isn't  a  man  in  that  San  Francisco 
office  that  doesn't  trust  me  down  to  the  ground. 
Then  there's  the  Governor.  O  God!  I  can't 
face  the  Governor ! ' ' 

Tsang  sat  immovable,  lost  in  thought.  Stray 
words  and  phrases  helped,  but  it  was  by  some 
subtle  working  of  his  own  complex  brain  that 
he  was  arriving  at  the  truth. 

"Father,  him  no  can  lend  money?"  he  sug- 
gested presently. 

*  '  The  Governor  I  Good  heavens,  no.  There 's 
not  enough  money  in  our  whole  family  to  wad  a 

129 


A  MATTER  OF  FRIENDSHIP 

gun!  They  put  up  all  they  had  to  give  me  a 
start,  and  look  where  I  have  landed!  Do  you 
suppose  Pd  go  back  and  ask  them  to  put  up  a 
thousand  more  for  my  rotten  foolishness  f ' '  He 
knotted  his  hands  together  until  the  nails  grew 
white  then,  seeing  the  unenlightened  face  below, 
he  added  emphatically:  "No,  no,  Tsang,  no 
can  askee!" 

"How  fashion  you  losee  money?"  asked 
Tsang. 

"The  money?  Oh,  belong  gamble.  Bet  on 
ship's  run.  First  day — win.  Second  day — 
win.  Then  lose,  lose,  keep  on  losing.  Didn't 
know  half  the  time  what  I  was  doing.  To-day 
my  settle  up;  no  can  pay  office.  A  thousand 
dollars  out!  Lord!  All  same  two  thousand 
Mex',  Tsang!" 

An  invisible  calculation  was  made  on  the  end 
of  the  steamer  trunk  by  a  long,  pointed,  finger- 
nail, but  no  change  of  expression  crossed  the 
yellow  face.  For  an  incalculable  time  Tsang 
sat,  lost  in  thought.  All  his  conserved  energy 
went  to  aid  him  in  solving  the  problem.  At  last 
he  reached  a  decision :  this  was  clearly  a  case  to 

130 


A  MATTER  OF  FRIENDSHIP 

be  laid  before  the  only  god  he  knew,  the  god  of 
Chance. 

"Me  gamble  too,"  he  said;  "me  no  lose." 

"But  s'pose  you  had  lost?  S'pose  you  lose 
what  no  belong  you?  What  thing  you  do?" 

"You  do  all  same  my  talkee  you?"  asked 
Tsang,  for  the  first  time  lifting  his  eyes. 

It  was  a  slender  straw,  to  be  sure,  but  Reyn- 
olds grasped  at  it. 

"What  thing  you  mean,  Tsang?  What  can 
I  do?" 

"Two  more  night*  to  San  Flancisco,"  said 
Tsang  softly;  "one  more  bet,  maybe?" 

"Oh,  I've  thought  of  that.  What's  the  good 
of  throwing  good  money  after  bad?  No  use,  I 
no  got  chance." 

"My  have  got  chance,"  announced  Tsang  em- 
phatically, "you  bet  how  fashion  my  talkee  you, 
your  money  come  back." 

Reynolds  studied  the  brass  knocker  of  a  face, 
but  found  no  clue  to  the  riddle.  "What  yon 
mean,  Tsang?"  he  asked.  "What  do  you 
know?  For  the  Lord's  sake  don't  fool  with  me 
about  it!" 

131 


A  MATTER  OF  FRIENDSHIP 

"Me  no  fool,"  declared  Tsang.  "You  le' 
me  talkee  number,  him  win  big  heap  money. ' ' 

"But  how  do  you  know?" 

"Me  savey,"  said  Tsang  enigmatically. 

Again  Reynolds  studied  the  impassive  face. 
"It's  on  the  square,  Tsang?  You  don't  stand 
in  with  anybody  below  decks?  The  thing  is  on 
the  level?"  Then  finding  further  elucidation 
necessary,  he  added,  "No  belong  cheat?" 

Tsang  Foo  shook  his  head  positively.  "No 
belong  cheat,  all  belong  ploper.  No  man  savey, 
only  me  savey,  this  side,"  and  he  tapped  his 
head  significantly. 

Reynolds  gave  a  short,  unpleasant  laugh. 
"All  right,"  he  said,  thrusting  his  hand  in  his 
pocket.  "I'll  give  myself  one  more  chance. 
There'll  be  time  to-morrow  to  finish  my  job. 
I'll  make  a  bargain  with  you,  Tsang!  Bet  this, 
and  this,  and  this,  on  the  next  run  for  me.  You 
win,  I  no  makee  shoot;  you  lose,  you  promise 
bring  back  pistol,  then  go  way.  My  can  do 
what  thing  my  wantchee,  see?" 

Tsang  Foo  looked  at  him  cunningly :  "I  win, 
132 


A  MATTER  OF  FRIENDSHIP 

you    belong    good    boy?     Stop    whisky-soda, 
may  be  7" 

Reynolds  laughed  in  spite  of  himself:  " Go- 
ing to  reform  me,  eh  ?  All  right,  it 's  a  bargain. ' ' 

Tsang  allowed  his  hand  to  be  shaken,  then  he 
carefully  counted  over  the  express  checks  that 
had  been  given  to  him. 

"My  go  now,"  he  announced  as  eight  bells 
sounded  from  the  bridge. 

As  the  door  closed  Reynolds  sighed,  then  his 
eyes  brightened  as  they  fell  upon  the  sand- 
wiches. Even  a  desperate  young  man  on  the 
verge  of  suicide  if  he  is  hungry  must  needs 
cheer  up  temporarily  at  the  sight  of  food. 
Reynolds  had  taken  an  early  breakfast  after  be- 
ing up  all  night,  and  had  eaten  nothing  since. 
After  devouring  the  sandwiches  and  tea  with 
relish,  he  ordered  a  hot  bath,  and  in  less  than 
an  hour  was  wrapped  in  his  berth  sleeping  the 
sleep  that  is  not  confined  to  the  righteous. 

It  was  high  noon  the  next  day  when  he  awoke. 
His  first  feeling  was  one  of  exhilaration:  the 
long  sleep,  the  fresh  sea  air  pouring  in  at  the 

133 


A  MATTER  OF  FRIENDSHIP 

port-hole,  and  a  sense  of  perfect  physical  well- 
being  had  made  him  forget,  for  a  moment,  the 
serious  business  the  day  might  have  in  store  for 
him. 

As  he  lay,  half  dozing,  he  became  dimly  aware 
that  something  was  wrong.  The  throb  of  the 
engines  had  ceased,  and  an  ominous  stillness 
prevailed.  He  sat  up  in  bed  and  listened,  then 
he  thrust  his  head  out  of  the  port-hole,  only  to 
see  a  deserted  deck.  The  passage  was  likewise 
deserted  save  for  a  hurried  stewardess,  who 
called  back,  over  her  shoulder,  " It's  a  man  over- 
board, sir,  on  the  starboard  side — " 

Reynolds  flung  on  his  clothes.  The  boy  in 
him  was  keen  for  excitement,  and  in  five  minutes 
he  was  on  deck,  and  had  joined  the  crowd  of 
passengers  that  thronged  the  railing. 

The  life-boat  was  being  lowered,  groaning  and 
protesting  as  it  cleared  the  davits  and  swung 
away  from  the  ship's  side.  Far  behind,  in  the 
still  shining  wake  of  the  steamer,  a  small  black 
object  bobbed  helplessly  in  the  gray  expanse  of 
waters. 

"What's  the  matter ?"  "Did  he  fall  over- 
134 


A  MATTER  OF  FRIENDSHIP 

board?"  "Did  he  jump  in  I"  "Was  it  sui- 
cide?" The  air  buzzed  with  questions.  The 
sentimental  contingent  clung  to  the  theory  that 
it  was  some  poor  stoker  who  could  no  longer 
stand  the  heat,  or  a  foreign  refugee  afraid  to 
come  into  port.  The  more  practical  argued  that 
it  was  probably  one  of  the  seamen  who,  while 
doing  outside  painting,  had  lost  his  balance  and 
fallen  into  the  sea. 

A  smug,  well-dressed  man,  with  close-cropped 
gray  beard,  and  a  detached  gaze  that  seemed 
to  go  no  further  than  his  rimless  glasses,  turned 
and  spoke  to  Reynolds : 

"It  has  gotten  to  be  quite  the  fashion  for 
somebody  in  the  steerage  to  create  this  sort  of 
sensation.  It  happened  as  I  went  over.  If  a 
man  sees  fit  to  jump  overboard,  all  well  and 
good;  in  nine  cases  out  of  ten  it's  a  good  rid- 
dance to  the  community.  But  why  in  Heaven 's 
name  should  the  steamer  put  back?  Why 
should  several  hundred  people  be  delayed  an 
hour  or  so  for  the  sake  of  an  inconsiderate,  use- 
less fool?" 

Reynolds  turned  away  sickened.  From  a 
135 


A  MATTEE  OF  FBIENDSHIP 

point,  apart  from  the  rest,  lie  strained  his  eyes 
to  keep  in  sight  the  small  black  object  now  hid- 
den, now  revealed,  by  the  waves.  A  fierce  sense 
of  kinship  for  that  man  in  the  water  seized  him. 
He,  too,  perhaps  had  grappled  with  some  unen- 
durable situation  and  been  overcome.  What 
if  he  was  an  utterly  worthless  asset  on  the 
great  human  ledger?  He  was  a  fellow-being, 
suffering,  tempted,  vanquished.  Was  it  kind  to 
bring  him  back,  to  go  through  with  it  all 
again? 

For  answer  Beynolds's  muscles  strained  with 
those  of  the  sailors  rowing  below:  all  the  life 
and  youth  in  him  rose  in  rebellion  against  un- 
necessary death.  He  watched  with  teeth  hard 
set  as  the  small  boat  climbed  to  the  crest  of  a 
wave,  then  plunged  into  the  trough  again,  crawl- 
ing by  imperceptible  inches  toward  the  bobbing 
spot  in  the  water.  He  longed  to  be  in  the  boat, 
in  the  water  even,  helping  to  save  that  human 
life  that  only  on  the  verge  of  extinction  had 
gained  significance.  What  if  the  man  wished 
to  die?  No  matter,  he  must  be  saved,  saved 
from  himself,  given  another  chance,  made  to 

136 


A  MATTER  OF  FRIENDSHIP 

face  it  out,  whatever  it  was.  Not  until  then  did 
Reynolds  remember  another  life  that  he  had 
dared  to  threaten,  that  even  now  he  meant  to 
take  if  the  wheel  of  chance  swung  against  him. 
Suddenly  he  faced  the  awful  judgment  of  his 
own  act,  and  shuddered  back  as  one  who,  stand- 
ing upon  a  precipice,  trembles  in  terror  before 
the  mad  desire  to  leap. 

"I'll  stick  it  out!"  he  said  half  aloud  as  if  in 
promise.  "Whatever  comes,  I'll  take  my  medi- 
cine, I'll—" 

An  eager  murmur  swept  through  the  crowd. 
A  sailor  with  a  rope  about  him  was  being  low- 
ered from  the  life-boat. 

For  five  tense  minutes  the  two  men  rose  and 
fell  at  the  mercy  of  the  high  waves,  and  the  dis- 
tance between  them  did  not  lessen  by  an  inch. 

Then  a  passenger  with  a  binocular  announced 
that  the  sailor  was  swimming  around  to  the  far 
side  to  get  the  man  between  him  and  the  boat. 

With  long,  steady,  overhand  strokes,  the 
sailor  was  gaining  his  way,  and  when  at  last  he 
reached  the  apparently  motionless  object  and 
got  a  rope  under  its  arms,  and  the  two  were 

137 


A  MATTER  OF  FRIENDSHIP 

hauled  into  the  life-boat,  a  rousing  cheer  went 
up  from  the  big  steamer  above. 

Reynolds  drew  in  his  breath  sharply  and 
turned  away  from  the  railing.  As  he  did  so  he 
was  hailed  by  a  group  of  friends  who  were  re- 
turning to  their  cards,  waiting  face  downward 
on  the  small  tables  in  the  smoking-room. 

' ' Behold  His  Nibs!"  shouted  Glass,  the  actor, 
' '  the  luckiest  duffer  that  ever  hit  a  high-ball ! ' ' 

"How  did  you  happen  to  do  it?"  cried  an- 
other. 

Reynolds  lifted  his  hand  to  his  bewildered 
head.  '  <  Do  what  ?  "  he  asked  dully.  "  I  >m  not 
on." 

'  '  Oh,  come ! ' '  said  Glass,  shaking  him  by  the 
shoulder;  "that  bet  you  sent  in  last  night! 
When  the  Chink  said  you  wanted  to  buy  the  low 
field  for  all  six  pools,  and  to  bet  five  hundred  to 
boot  that  you'd  win,  I  thought  you  were  either 
drunk  or  crazy.  Yesterday's  run  was  four- 
fifty-one,  a  regular  corker,  and  yet  with  even 
better  weather  conditions,  you  took  only  the 
numbers  below  four-thirty-one.  I  argued  with 
the  Chinaman  'til  I  was  blue  in  the  face,  but  he 

138 


A  MATTEE  OF  FEIENDSHIP 

stood  pat,  said  you  were  all  right,  and  had  told 
him  what  to  do.  Nothing  but  an  accident  could 
have  saved  you,  and  it  arrived.  You've  won 
the  biggest  pool  of  the  crossing,  don't  you  think 
it 's  about  time  for  you  to  set  'em  up  I  Say  Mar- 
tini cocktails  for  the  crowd,  eh!" 

Reynolds  was  jostled  about  in  congratulation 
and  good-humored  banter.  Everybody  was 
glad  of  the  boy's  success,  he  was  an  all  round 
favorite,  and  some  of  the  men  who  had  won  his 
money  felt  relieved  to  return  it. 

"Here's  your  cocktail,  Freddy,"  cried  Glass, 
"and  here's  to  you!" 

Reynolds  stood  in  the  midst  of  the  crowd,  his 
face  flushed,  his  hair  tumbled.  With  a  quick 
movement  he  sent  the  glass  and  its  contents 
spinning  out  of  a  near-by  port-hole. 

"Not  for  Frederick!"  he  said  with  emphasis, 
"I've  been  that  particular  kind  of  a  fool  for 
the  last  time." 

Some  hours  later  when  the  crowd  went  below 
to  dress  for  dinner,  Reynolds  dropped  behind 
to  ask  the  Second  Officer  about  the  man  who 
had  been  rescued. 

139 


A  MATTEE  OF  FEIENDSHIP 

"He  is  still  pretty  full  of  salt  water, "  said 
the  Officer,  "but  he  is  being  bailed  out." 

"How  did  it  happen?"  asked  Keynolds. 

"Give  it  up.  He  hasn't  spoken  yet.  It  looks 
as  if  he  were  getting  ready  to  do  some  outside 
cleaning,  for  he  had  on  a  life-preserver.  Funny 
thing  about  it,  though,  that's  not  his  work. 
He's  not  even  on  duty  during  the  starboard 
watch.  The  man  in  the  lookout  saw  him  climb 
out  on  the  bow,  shout  something  up  to  him,  then 
fall  backward  into  the  water.  I'll  be  hanged 
if  I  can  make  it  out.  Tsang  Foo  is  one  of  the 
steadiest  sailors  on  board." 

"Tsang  Foo!"  shouted  Reynolds.  "You 
don't  mean  that  man  was  Tsang?" 

With  headlong  haste  he  seized  the  bewildered 
officer  and  made  him  pilot  him  below  decks. 
Stumbling  down  the  ladders  and  through  dark 
passages,  he  at  last  reached  the  bunk  where 
Tsang  Foo  lay  with  the  ship's  surgeon  and  a 
steward  in  attendance. 

The  Chinaman 's  lips  were  drawn  tightly  back 
over  his  prominent  teeth,  and  his  breath  came 
in  irregular  gasps.  Across  the  pillow  in  a 

140 


A  MATTEE  OF  FRIENDSHIP 

straight  black  line  lay  his  dripping  queque.  As 
his  eyelids  fluttered  feebly,  the  doctor  straight- 
ened his  own  tired  back. 

'  *  He  '11  come  round  now,  all  right, "  he  said 
to  the  steward.  "Give  him  those  drops  and 
don't  talk  to  him.  He's  had  a  close  call.  I'll 
be  back  in  ten  minutes." 

Reynolds  crowded  into  the  narrow  space  the 
doctor  had  left.  The  fact  that  he  was  saved 
from  disgrace  was  utterly  blotted  out  by  the  big- 
ger fact  that  this  ignorant,  uncouth,  foreign 
sailor  had  fearlessly  risked  his  life  to  save  him 
from  facing  a  merited  punishment.  Reynolds 's 
very  soul  seemed  to  grow  bigger  to  accommodate 
the  thought. 

"Tsang!"  he  whispered,  seizing  the  yellow 
hand,  "You  are  a  brick!  Number  one  good 
man.  But  my  no  can  take  money, — I — " 

The  steward  in  attendance,  who  had  stepped 
aside,  made  a  warning  gesture  and  laid  his  fin- 
ger on  his  lips. 

For  five  minutes  the  man  in  the  bunk  and  the 
one  beside  it  looked  silently  into  each  other's 
eyes,  then  the  drawn  lips  moved,  and  Reynolds, 

141 


A  MATTER  OF  FRIENDSHIP 

bending  his  head  to  listen,  heard  the  broken 
question : 

' '  You — no — blake — bargain  ? ' ' 

Reynolds 's  mind  dashed  at  two  conclusions 
and  recoiled  from  each.  Should  he  follow  his 
impulse  to  explain  the  whole  affair,  serious  con- 
sequences would  result  for  Tsang,  while  the 
other  alternative  of  accepting  the  situation 
made  him  a  party,  albeit  an  innocent  one,  to  a 
most  reprehensible  proceeding.  It  was  to  his 
credit,  that  of  the  two  courses  the  latter  was  in- 
finitely the  more  intolerable.  He  got  up  nerv- 
ously, then  sat  down  again. 

"No — blake — bargain? "  repeated  Tsang  anx- 
iously. 

Still  Reynolds  waited  for  some  prompting 
from  a  conscience  unaccustomed  to  being  rusty. 
Any  course  that  would  involve  the  loyal  little 
Chinaman,  who  had  played  the  game  according 
to  the  rules  as  he  knew  them,  was  out  of  the 
question.  The  money  must  be  paid  back,  of 
course,  but  how,  and  when!  If  he  cleared  him- 
self at  the  office  it  might  be  years  before  he 
could  settle  this  new  debt,  but  he  could  do  it  in 

142 


A  MATTER  OF  FRIENDSHIP 

time,  he  must  do  it.  Then  at  last,  light  came 
to  him.  He  would  accept  Tsang 's  sacrifice  but 
it  should  stand  for  more  than  the  mere  ma- 
terial good  it  had  purchased.  It  should  pledge 
him  to  a  fresh  start,  a  clean  life.  He  would 
justify  the  present  by  the  future.  He  drew  a 
deep  breath  of  relief  and  leaned  forward: 

"Tsang,"  he  said,  and  his  voice  trembled 
with  the  earnestness  of  his  resolve,  "I  no  break 
bargain.  From  now  on  my  behave  all  same 
proper.  It  wasn't  right,  old  fellow,  you 
oughtn't — "  then  he  gave  it  up  and  smiled  help- 
lessly, "you  belong  my  good  friend  Tsang,  what 
thing  you  wantchee  ? ' ' 

A  slow  smile  broke  the  brass-like  stillness  of 
Tsang  Foo  's  face : 

"Pipe,"  he  gasped  softly,  "opium  velly  good, 
— make  land  and  sea— all  same — by  an'  by  I" 


143 


THE  WILD  OATS  OF  A  SPINSTER 


THE  WILD  OATS  OF  A  SPINSTER 

JUDGING  from  appearances  Miss  Lucinda 
Perkins  was  justifying  her  reason  for  be- 
ing by  conforming  absolutely  to  her  environ- 
ment. She  apparently  fitted  as  perfectly  into 
her  little  niche  in  the  Locustwood  Seminary 
for  young  ladies  as  Miss  Joe  Hill  fitted  into 
hers.  The  only  difference  was  that  Miss  Joe 
Hill  did  not  confine  herself  to  a  niche ;  she  filled 
the  seminary,  as  a  plump  hand  does  a  tight 
glove. 

It  was  the  year  after  Miss  Lucinda  had  come 
to  the  seminary  to  teach  elocution  that  Miss  Joe 
Hill  discovered  in  her  an  affinity.  As  princi- 
pal, Miss  Joe  HilPs  word  was  never  questioned, 
and  Miss  Lucinda,  with  pleased  obedience,  ac- 
cepted the  honor  that  was  thrust  upon  her,  and 
meekly  moved  her  few  belongings  into  Miss  Joe 
Hill's  apartment. 

For  four  years  they  had  lived  in  the  rarified 
147 


THE  WILD  OATS  OF  A  SPINSTEE 

atmosphere  of  celestial  friendship.  They 
clothed  their  bodies  in  the  same  raiment,  and 
their  minds  in  the  same  thoughts,  and  when  one 
was  cold  the  other  shivered. 

If  Miss  Lucinda,  in  those  early  days  found  it 
difficult  to  live  up  to  Miss  Joe  Hill's  transcen- 
dental code  she  gave  no  sign  of  it.  She  laid 
aside  her  mildly  adorned  garments  and  en- 
veloped her  small  angular  person  in  a  garb  of 
sombre  severity.  Even  the  modest  bird  that 
adorned  her  hat  was  replaced  by  an  uncom- 
promising band.  She  foreswore  meat  and  be- 
came a  vegetarian.  She  stopped  reading  novels 
and  devoted  her  spare  time  to  essays  and  biog- 
raphy. In  fact  she  and  Miss  Joe  Hill  became 
one  and  that  one  was' Miss  Joe  Hill. 

It  was  not  until  Floss  Speckert  entered  the 
senior  class  at  Locustwood  Seminary  that  this 
sublimated  friendship  suffered  a  jar. 

Floss's  father  lived  in  Chicago,  and  it  was 
due  to  his  unerring  discernment  in  the  buying 
and  selling  of  live  stock  that  Floss  was  being 
"finished"  in  all  branches  without  regard  to 
the  cost. 

148 


THE  WILD  OATS  OF  A  SPINSTER 

" Learn  her  all  you  want  to,"  he  said  magnan- 
imously to  Miss  Lucinda,  who  negotiated  the 
arrangement.  "I  ain't  got  but  two  children, 
her  and  Tom.  He 's  just  like  me — don 't  know  a 
blame  thing  but  business;  but  Floss — "  his 
bosom  swelled  under  his  checked  vest — " she's 
on  to  it  all.  I  pay  for  everything  you  get  into 
her  head.  Dancing  singin',  French — all  them 
extries  goes." 

Miss  Lucinda  had  consequently  undertaken 
the  management  of  Floss  Speckert,  and  the  re- 
sult had  been  far-reaching  in  its  consequences. 

Floss  was  a  person  whose  thoughts  did  not 
dwell  upon  the  highest  development  of  the 
spiritual  life.  Her  mind  was  given  over  to  the 
pursuit  of  worldly  amusements,  her  only  seri- 
ous thought  being  a  burning  ambition  to  win 
histrionic  honors.  The  road  to  this  led  natu- 
rally through  the  elocution  classes,  and  Floss 
accepted  Miss  Lucinda  as  the  only  means  toward 
the  desired  end. 

A  drop  of  water  in  a  bottle  of  ink  produces 
no  visible  result,  but  a  drop  of  ink  in  a  glass  of 
water  contaminates  it  at  once.  Miss  Lucinda 

149 


THE  WILD  OATS  OF  A  SPINSTEE 

took  increasing  interest  in  her  frivolous  young 
pupil;  she  listened  with  half -suppressed  eager- 
ness to  unlimited  gossip  about  stage-land,  and 
even  sank  to  the  regular  perusal  of  certain  bold 
theatrical  papers.  She  was  unmistakably  be- 
coming contaminated. 

Meanwhile  Miss  Joe  Hill,  quite  blind  to  the 
situation,  condoned  the  friendship.  "You  are 
developing  your  own  character,"  she  told  Miss 
Lucinda.  "You  are  exercising  self-control  and 
forbearance  in  dealing  with  that  crude,  undis- 
ciplined girl.  Florence  is  the  natural  outcome 
of  common  stock  and  newly  acquired  riches.  It 
is  your  noble  aspiration  to  take  this  vulgar  clay 
and  mold  it  into  something  higher.  Your  mo- 
tive is  laudable,  Lucinda;  your  self-sacrifice  in 
giving  up  our  evening  hour  together  is  heroic. 
I  read  you  like  an  open  book,  dear. ' ' 

And  Miss  Lucinda  listened  and  trembled. 
They  were  standing  together  before  the  window 
of  their  rigid  little  sitting  room,  the  chastened 
severity  of  which  banished  all  ideas  of  comfort. 
"What  purpose  do  you  serve V9  Miss  Joe  Hill 
demanded  of  every  article  that  went  into  her 

150 


THE  WILD  OATS  OF  A  SPINSTEE 

apartment,  and  many  of  the  comforts  of  life 
failed  to  pass  the  examination. 

After  Miss  Joe  Hill  had  gone  out,  Miss  Lu- 
cinda  remained  at  the  window  and  restlessly 
tapped  her  knuckles  against  the  sill.  The  in- 
sidious spring  sunshine,  the  laughter  of  the  girls 
in  the  court  below,  the  foolish  happy  birds  tell- 
ing their  secrets  under  the  new,  green  leaves, 
all  worked  together  to  disturb  her  peace  of  mind. 

She  resolutely  turned  her  back  to  the  window 
and  took  breathing  exercises.  That  was  one  of 
Miss  Joe  Hill's  sternest  requirements— fifteen 
minutes  three  times  a  day  and  two  pints  of 
water  between  meals.  Then  she  sat  down  in  a 
straight-back  chair  and  tried  to  read  "The 
Power  Through  Poise."  Her  body  was  doing 
its  duty,  but  it  did  not  deceive  her  mind.  She 
knew  that  she  was  living  a  life  of  black  decep- 
tion ;  evidences  of  her  guilt  were  on  every  hand. 
Behind  the  books  on  her  little  shelf  was  a  paper 
of  chocolate  creams ;  in  the  music  rack,  back  to 
back  with  Grieg  and  Brahms,  was  an  imperti- 
nent sheet  of  ragtime  which  Floss  had  per- 
suaded her  to  learn  as  an  accompaniment.  And 

151 


THE  WILD  OATS  OF  A  SPINSTER 

deeper  and  darker  and  falser  than  all  was  a 
plan  which  had  been  fermenting  in  her  mind 
for  days. 

In  a  fortnight  the  school  term  would  be  over. 
Following  the  usual  custom,  Miss  Lucinda  was 
to  go  to  her  brother  in  the  country  and  Miss 
Joe  Hill  to  her  sister  for  a  week.  This  obliga- 
tion to  their  respective  families  being  dis- 
charged, they  would  repair  to  the  seclusion  of 
a  Catskill  farmhouse,  there  to  hang  upon  each 
other  *s  souls  for  the  rest  of  the  summer. 

Miss  Lucinda 's  visits  to  her  brother  were 
reminiscent  of  a  multiplicity  of  children  and  a 
scarcity  of  room.  To  her  the  Inferno  presented 
no  more  disquieting  prospect  than  the  necessity 
of  sharing  her  bedroom.  She  always  returned 
from  these  sojourns  in  the  country  with  im- 
paired digestion,  and  shattered  nerves.  She 
looked  forward  to  them  with  dread  and  looked 
back  on  them  with  horror.  Was  it  any  wonder 
that  when  a  brilliant  alternative  presented  itself 
she  was  eager  to  accept  it? 

Floss  Speckert  had  gained  her  father's  con- 
sent to  spend  her  first  week  out  of  school  in 

152 


THE  WILD  OATS  OF  A  SPINSTEE 

New  York  provided  she  could  find  a  suitable 
chaperon.  She  had  fallen  upon  the  first  and 
most  harmless  person  in  sight  and  besieged 
her  with  entreaties. 

Miss  Lucinda  would  have  flared  to  the  project 
had  not  a  forbidding  presence  loomed  between 
her  and  the  alluring  invitation.  She  knew  only 
too  well  that  Miss  Joe  Hill  would  never  coun- 
tenance the  proposition. 

As  she  sat  trying  vainly  to  concentrate  on 
her  " Power  Through  Poise,"  she  was  startled 
by  a  noise  at  the  window,  followed  immediately 
by  a  dishevelled  figure  that  scrambled  laugh- 
ingly over  the  sill. 

i  1 1  came  down  the  fire  escape ! ' '  whispered  the 
invader  breathlessly,  "Miss  Joe  Hill  caught  us 
making  fudge  in  the  linen  closet,  and  I  gave  her 
the  slip." 

"But  Florence!"  Miss  Lucinda  began  re- 
proachfully, but  Floss  interrupted  her  : 

"Don't  'Florence'  me,  Miss  Lucy!  You're 
just  pretending  to  be  mad  anyhow.  You  are  a 
perfect  darling  and  Miss  Joe  Hill  is  an  old 
bear!" 

153 


THE  WILD  OATS  OF  A  SPINSTER 

Miss  Lucinda  was  aghast  at  this  irreverence 
but  her  halting  protests  had  no  effect  on  the 
torrent  of  Floss's  eloquence. 

1  'I  am  going  to  take  you  to  New  York,"  the 
girl  declared  "and  I  am  going  to  give  you  the 
time  of  your  life!  Dad's  got  to  put  us  up  in 
style — a  room  and  a  bath  apiece  and  maybe  a 
sitting  room.  He  likes  me  to  splurge  around  a 
bit,  says  he  'd  hate  to  have  a  daughter  that  acted 
like  she  wasn't  used  to  money." 

Miss  Lucinda  glanced  apprehensively  at  the 
door  and  then  back  at  the  sparkling  face  before 
her. 

"I  can't  go,"  she  insisted  miserably,  trying 
to  free  her  hand  from  Floss's  plump  grasp. 
"My  brother  is  expecting  me  and  Miss  Hill— 

"Oh,  bother  Miss  Joe  Hill!  You  don't  have 
to  tell  her  anything  about  it !  You  can  pretend 
you  are  going  to  your  brother's  and  meet  me 
some  place  on  the  road  instead." 

Miss  Lucinda  looked  horrified,  but  she  lis- 
tened. A  material  kept  plastic  by  years  of 
manipulation  does  not  harden  to  a  new  hand. 

154 


THE  WILD  OATS  OF  A  SPINSTER 

Her  objections  to  Floss's  plan  grew  fainter  and 
fainter. 

"  Think  of  the  theaters, "  went  on  the  temp- 
tress, putting  an  arm  around  her  neck,  and 
ignoring  the  fact  that  caresses  embarrassed 
Miss  Lucinda  almost  to  the  point  of  tears; 
" think  of  it!  A  new  show  every  night,  and 
operas  and  pictures.  There  will  be  three 
Shakspere  plays  that  week,  *  Merchant  of  Ven- 
ice,' 'Twelfth  Night,'  and  ' Hamlet.'  " 

Miss  Lucinda 's  heart  fluttered  in  her  bosom. 
Although  she  had  spent  a  great  part  of  her  life 
interpreting  the  Bard  of  Avon,  she  had  never 
seen  one  of  his  plays  produced.  In  her  secret 
soul  she  believed  that  her  own  rendition  of 
"The  quality  of  mercy,"  was  not  to  be  excelled. 

"I — I  haven't  any  clothes,"  she  urged  feebly, 
putting  up  her  last  defense. 

"I  have,"  declared  Floss  in  triumph — "two 
trunks  full,  and  we  are  almost  the  same  size. 
It's  just  for  a  week,  Miss  Lucy;  won't  you 
come ! ' ' 

Miss  Lucinda,  sitting  rigid,  felt  a  warm 
155 


THE  WILD  OATS  OF  A  SPINSTEE 

cheek  pressed  against  her  own,  and  a  stray  curl 
touched  her  lips.  She  sat  for  a  moment  with 
her  eyes  closed.  It  was  more  than  disconcert- 
ing to  be  so  close  to  youth  and  joy  and  life;  it 
was  infectious.  The  blood  surged  suddenly 
through  her  veins,  and  an  exultation  seized  her. 

"I'm  going  to  do  it,"  she  cried  recklessly; 
"I  never  had  a  real  good  time  in  my  life." 

Floss  threw  her  arms  about  her  and  waltzed 
her  across  the  room,  but  a  step  in  the  hall 
brought  them  to  a  halt. 

"It's  Miss  Joe  Hill,"  whispered  Floss,  with 
trepidation;  "I  am  going  out  the  way  I  came. 
Don't  you  forget;  you  have  promised." 

When  Miss  Joe  Hill  entered,  she  smiled  com- 
placently at  finding  Miss  Lucinda  in  the 
straight-back  chair,  absorbed  in  the  second 
volume  of  the  "Power  Through  Poise." 

At  the  Union  Depot  in  Chicago,  two  weeks 
later,  a  small,  nervous  lady  fluttered  uncertainly 
from  one  door  to  another.  She  wore  a  short, 
brown  coat  suit  of  classic  severity,  and  a  felt 

156 


THE  WILD  OATS  OF  A  SPINSTER 

hat  which  was  fastened  under  her  smoothly 
braided  hair  by  a  narrow  elastic  band. 

On  her  fourth  trip  to  the  main  entrance  she 
stopped  a  train-boy.  '  *  Can  you  tell  me  where  I 
can  get  a  drink?"  she  asked,  fanning  her  flushed 
face.  He  looked  surprised.  "  Third  door  to 
the  left,"  he  answered.  Miss  Lucinda,  carry- 
ing a  hand-bag,  a  suit-case,  and  an  umbrella, 
followed  directions.  When  she  pushed  open  the 
heavy  door  she  was  confronted  by  a  long  counter 
with  shining  glasses  and  a  smiling  bartender. 
Beating  a  confused  retreat,  she  fled  back  to 
the  main  entrance,  and  stood  there  trembling. 
For  the  hundredth  time  that  day  she  wished 
she  had  not  come. 

The  arrangements,  so  glibly  planned  by  Floss, 
had  not  been  adhered  to  in  any  particular.  At 
the  last  moment  that  mercurial  young  person 
had  decided  to  go  on  two  days  in  advance  and 
visit  a  friend  in  Philadelphia.  She  wrote  Miss 
Lucinda  to  come  on  to  Chicago,  where  Tom 
would  meet  her  and  give  her  her  ticket,  and  that 
she  would  meet  her  in  New  York. 

157 


THE  WILD  OATS  OF  A  SPINSTER 

With  many  misgivings  and  grievous  twinges 
of  conscience,  Miss  Lucinda  had  bade  Miss  Joe 
Hill  a  guilty  farewell,  and  started  ostensibly 
for  her  brother's  home.  At  the  Junction  she 
changed  cars  for  Chicago,  missed  two  connec- 
tions, and  lost  her  lunch-box.  Now  that  she  had 
arrived  in  Chicago,  three  hours  late,  nervous 
and  excited  over  her  experiences,  there  was  no 
one  to  meet  her. 

A  sense  of  homesickness  rushed  over  her,  and 
she  decided  to  return  to  Locustwood.  It  was 
the  same  motive  that  might  prompt  a  newly 
hatched  chicken,  embarrassed  by  its  sudden  lib- 
erty, to  return  to  its  shell.  Just  as  she  was  go- 
ing in  search  of  a  time-table,  a  round-faced 
young  man  came  up. 

"Miss  Perkins?"  he  asked,  and  when  she 
nodded,  he  went  on :  *  '  Been  looking  for  you  for 
half  an  hour.  Sis  told  me  what  you  looked  like, 
but  I  couldn't  find  you."  He  failed  to  observe 
that  Floss's  comparison  had  been  a  squirrel. 

"Isn't  it  nearly  time  to  start?"  asked  Miss 
Lucinda,  nervously. 

"Just  five  minutes;  but  I  want  to  explain 
158 


THE  WILD  OATS  OF  A  SPINSTER 

something  to  you  first. "  He  looked  through 
the  papers  in  his  pocket  and  selected  one. 
"This  is  a  pass,"  he  explained;  "the  governor 
can  get  them  over  this  road.  I  got  there  late, 
so  I  could  only  get  one  that  had  been  made  out 
for  somebody  else  and  not  been  used.  It's  all 
right,  you  know;  you  won't  have  a  bit  of 
trouble." 

Miss  Lucinda  took  the  bit  of  paper,  put  on 
her  glasses,  and  read,  "Mrs.  Lura  Doring." 

"Yes,"  said  Tom;  "that's  the  lady  it  was 
made  out  for.  Nine  chances  out  of  ten  they 
won't  mention  it ;  but  if  anything  comes  up,  you 
just  say  yes,  you  are  Mrs.  Doring,  and  it  will 
be  all  right." 

"But,"  protested  Miss  Lucinda,  ready  to 
weep,  "I  cannot  tell  a  falsehood." 

"I  don't  think  you'll  have  to,"  said  Tom, 
somewhat  impatiently;  "but  if  you  deny  it, 
you'll  get  us  both  into  no  end  of  a  scrape. 
Hello !  there 's  the  call  for  your  train.  I  '11  bring 
your  bag." 

In  the  confusion  of  getting  settled  in  her  sec- 
tion, and  of  expressing  her  gratitude  to  Tom, 

159 


THE  WILD  OATS  OF  A  SPINSTER 

Miss  Lucinda  forgot  for  the  time  the  deadly 
weight  of  guilt  that  rested  upon  her.  It  was 
not  until  the  conductor  called  for  her  ticket  that 
her  heart  grew  cold,  and  a  look  of  consternation 
swept  over  her  face.  It  seemed  to  her  that  he 
eyed  the  pass  suspiciously  and  when  he  did  not 
return  it  a  terror  seized  her.  She  knew  he  was 
coming  back  to  ask  her  name,  and  what  was  her 
name?  Mrs.  Dora  Luring,  or  Mrs.  Dura  Lor- 
ing,  or  Mrs.  Lura  Doring? 

In  despair  she  fled  to  the  dressing  room  and 
stood  there  concealed  by  the  curtains.  In  a 
few  moments  the  conductor  passed,  and  she 
peeped  at  his  retreating  figure.  He  stopped  in 
the  narrow  passage  by  the  window  and  studied 
her  pass,  then  he  compared  it  with  a  telegram 
which  he  held  in  his  hand.  Just  then  the  porter 
joined  him,  and  she  flattened  herself  against  the 
wall  and  held  her  breath. 

"It's  the  same  name,"  she  heard  the  conduc- 
tor say  in  an  undertone.  "I'll  wire  back  to 
headquarters  at  the  next  stop." 

If  ever  retribution  followed  an  erring  soul,  it 
followed  Miss  Lucinda  on  that  trip.  No  one 

160 


THE  WILD  OATS  OF  A  SPINSTEE 

spoke  to  her,  and  nothing  happened,  but  she  sat 
in  terrified  suspense,  looking  neither  to  right 
nor  left,  her  heart  beating  frantically  at  every 
approach,  and  the  whirring  wheels  repeating 
the  questioning  refrain,  "Dora  Luring?  Dura 
Loring?  Lura  Doring?" 

In  New  York,  Floss  met  her  as  she  stepped 
off  the  train,  fairly  enveloping  her  in  her  en- 
thusiasm. 

"Here  you  are,  you  old  darling!  I  have 
been  having  a  fit  a  minute  for  fear  you  wouldn  't 
come.  This  is  my  Cousin  May.  She  is  going 
to  stay  with  us  the  whole  week.  New  York  is 
simply  heavenly,  Miss  Lucy.  We  have  made 
four  engagements  already.  Matinee  this  after- 
noon, a  dinner  to-night — What's  the  matter? 
Did  you  leave  anything  on  the  train?" 

"No,  no,"  stammered  Miss  Lucinda,  still 
casting  furtive  glances  backward  at  the  conduc- 
tor. "Was  he  talking  to  a  policeman?"  she 
asked  suspiciously. 

"Who?" 

"The  conductor." 

The  girls  laughed. 

161 


THE  WILD  OATS  OF  A  SPINSTEE 

"I  don't  wonder  you  were  scared, "  said 
Floss;  "a  policeman  always  does  remind  me  of 
Miss  Joe  Hill." 

They  called  a  cab  and,  to  Miss  Lucinda  's  vast 
relief,  were  soon  rolling  away  from  the  scene 
of  danger. 

It  needed  only  one  glance  into  a  handsome 
suite  of  an  up-town  hotel  one  week  later  to  prove 
the  rapid  moral  deterioration  of  the  prodigal. 

Arrayed  in  a  shell-pink  kimono,  she  was  hav- 
ing her  nails  manicured.  Her  gaily  figured  gar- 
ment was  sufficient  in  itself  to  give  her  an  un- 
usual appearance;  but  there  was  a  more  star- 
tling reason. 

Miss  Lucinda 's  hair,  hitherto  a  pale  drab 
smoothly  drawn  into  a  braided  coil  at  the  back, 
had  undergone  a  startling  metamorphosis.  It 
was  Floss's  suggestion  that  Miss  Lucinda  wash 
it  in  "Golden  Glow,"  a  preparation  guaranteed 
to  restore  luster  and  beauty  to  faded  locks. 
Miss  Lucinda  had  been  over-zealous,  and  the 
result  was  that  of  copper  in  sunshine. 

These  outward  manifestations,  however,  were 
162 


THE  WILD  OATS  OF  A  SPINSTER 

insignificant  compared  with  the  evidences  of 
Miss  Lucinda  's  inner  guilt.  She  was  taking  the 
keenest  interest  in  the  manicure's  progress, 
only  lifting  her  eyes  occasionally  to  survey  her- 
self with  satisfaction  in  the  mirror  opposite. 

At  first  her  sense  of  propriety  had  been  deeply 
offended  by  her  changed  appearance.  She  wept 
so  bitterly  that  the  girls,  seeking  to  console  her, 
had  overdone  the  matter. 

"I  never  thought  you  could  look  so  pretty," 
Floss  had  declared;  "you  look  ten  years 
younger.  It  makes  your  eyes  brighter  and  your 
skin  clearer.  Of  course  this  awfully  bright  color 
will  wear  off,  and  then  it  will  be  just  dear. ' ' 

Miss  Lucinda  began  to  feel  better;  she  even 
allowed  May  to  arrange  her  changed  locks  in  a 
modest  pompadour. 

The  week  she  had  spent  in  New  York  was  a 
riotous  round  of  dissipation.  May's  fiance  had 
prepared  a  whirlwind  of  pleasures,  and  Miss 
Lucinda  was  caught  up  and  revolved  at  a  pace 
that  made  her  dizzy.  Dances,  dinners,  plays, 
roof-gardens,  coaching  parties,  were  all  held  to- 
gether by  a  line  of  candy,  telegrams,  and  roses. 

163 


THE  WILD  OATS  OF  A  SPINSTER 

There  was  only  one  time  in  the  day  when  Miss 
Lucinda  came  down  to  earth.  Every  evening, 
no  matter  how  exhausted  she  might  be  from  the 
frivolities  of  the  day,  she  conscientiously  penned 
an  affectionate  letter  to  her  celestial  affinity,  ex- 
pressing her  undying  devotion,  and  incidentally 
mentioning  the  health  and  doings  of  her 
brother's  family.  These  she  sent  under  sepa- 
rate cover  to  her  brother  to  be  mailed. 

Her  conscience  assured  her  that  the  reckon- 
ing would  come,  that  sooner  or  later  she  would 
face  the  bar  of  justice  and  receive  the  verdict 
of  guilty;  but  while  one  day  of  grace  remained, 
she  would  still l  '  in  the  fire  of  spring,  her  winter 
garments  of  repentance  fling. " 

As  the  manicure  put  the  finishing  touch  to 
her  nails,  Floss  came  rushing  in : 

i ( Hurry  up,  Miss  Lucy  dear!  Dick  Benson 
has  just  'phoned  that  he  is  going  to  take  us  for 
a  farewell  frolic.  We  leave  here  at  five,  have 
dinner  somewhere,  then  do  all  sorts  of  stunts. 
You  are  going  to  wear  my  tan  coat-suit  and 
light  blue  waist.  Yes,  you  are,  too !  That's  all 
foolishness;  everybody  wears  elbow-sleeves. 

164 


THE  WILD  OATS  OF  A  SPINSTER 

Blue's  your  color,  and  Pve  got  the  hat  to  match. 
May  says  she  '11  fix  your  hair,  and  you  can  wear 
her  French-heel  Oxfords  again.  They  pitch 
you  over  ?  Oh,  nonsense !  you  just  tripped  along 
the  other  day  like  a  nice  little  jay-bird.  Hurry, 
hurry ! ' ' 

Even  Miss  Lucinda  's  week  of  strenuous  living 
had  not  prepared  her  for  what  followed.  First, 
there  was  a  short  trip  on  the  train,  during  which 
she  conscientiously  studied  a  map.  Then  fol- 
lowed a  dinner  at  a  large  and  ostentatious  hotel. 
The  decorations  were  more  brilliant,  the  music 
louder,  and  the  dresses  gayer,  than  at  any  place 
Miss  Lucinda  had  yet  been.  She  viewed  the 
passing  show  through  her  glasses,  and  experi- 
enced a  pleasant  thrill  of  sophistication.  This, 
she  assured  herself,  was  society ;  henceforth  she 
was  in  a  position  to  rail  at  its  follies  as  one  hav- 
ing authority. 

In  the  midst  of  these  complacent  reflections 
she  choked  on  a  crumb,  and,  after  groping  with 
closed  eyes  for  her  tumbler,  gulped  down  the 
contents.  A  strange,  delicious  tingle  filled  her 
mouth ;  she  forgot  she  was  choking,  and  opened 

165 


THE  WILD  OATS  OF  A  SPINSTER 

her  eyes.     To  her  horror,  she  found  that  she 
had  emptied  her  glass  of  champagne. 

"Spirituous  liquor !"  she  thought  in  dismay, 
as  the  shade  of  Miss  Joe  Hill  rose  before 
her. 

Total  abstinence  was  such  a  firm  plank  in  the 
platform  of  the  celestial  affinity  that,  even  in 
the  chafing-dish,  alcohol  had  been  tabooed. 
The  utter  iniquity  of  having  deliberately  swal- 
lowed a  glass  of  champagne  was  appalling  to 
Miss  Lucinda.  She  sat  silent  during  the  rest 
of  the  dinner,  eating  little,  and  plucking  nerv- 
ously at  the  ruffles  about  her  elbows.  The  fear 
of  rheumatism  in  her  wrists  which  had  assailed 
her  earlier  in  the  evening  gave  way  to  a  deeper 
and  more  disturbing  discomfort. 

When  the  dinner  was  over,  the  party  started 
forth  on  a  hilarious  round  of  sight-seeing. 
Miss  Lucinda  limped  after  them,  vaguely  aware 
that  she  was  in  a  giant  electric  cage  filled  with 
swarming  humanity,  that  bands  were  playing, 
drums  beating,  and  that  at  every  turn  disagree- 
able men  with  loud  voices  were  imploring  her  to 
"step  this  way." 

166 


THE  WILD  OATS  OF  A  SPINSTEE 

"Come  on!"  cried  Dick.  "We  are  going  on 
the  scenic  railway." 

But  the  worm  turned.  "I — I'm  not  going," 
she  protested.  "I  will  wait  here.  All  of  you 
go;  I  will  wait  right  here." 

With  a  sigh  of  relief  she  slipped  into  a  vacant 
corner,  and  gave  herself  up  to  the  luxury  of  be- 
ing miserable.  She  longed  for  solitude  in  which 
to  face  the  full  enormity  of  her  misdeed,  and 
to  plan  an  immediate  reformation.  She  would 
throw  herself  bodily  upon  the  mercy  of  Miss 
Joe  Hill,  she  would  spare  herself  nothing ;  pen- 
ance of  any  kind  would  be  welcome,  bodily  pain 
even — 

She  shifted  her  weight  to  the  slender  support 
of  one  high-heeled  shoe  while  she  rested  the 
other  foot.  Her  hair,  unused  to  its  new  ar- 
rangement, pulled  cruelly  upon  every  restrain- 
ing hair-pin,  and  her  head  was  beginning  to 
ache. 

"I  deny  the  slavery  of  sense.  I  repudiate 
the  bondage  of  matter.  I  affirm  spirit  and 
freedom, ' '  she  quoted  to  herself,  but  the  thought 
failed  to  have  any  effect. 

167 


THE  WILD  OATS  OF  A  SPINSTEE 

A  two-ringed  circus  was  in  progress  at  her 
right  while  at  her  left  a  procession  of  camels  and 
Egyptians  was  followed  by  a  noisy  crowd  of 
urchins.  People  were  thronging  in  every  direc- 
tion, and  she  realized  that  she  was  occasionally 
the  recipient  of  a  curious  glance.  She  began 
to  watch  rather  anxiously  for  the  return  of  her 
party.  Ten  minutes  passed,  and  still  they  did 
not  come. 

Suddenly  the  awful  possibility  presented  it- 
self that  they  might  have  lost  her.  She  had  no 
money,  and  even  with  it,  she  knew  she  could  not 
find  her  way  back  to  the  hotel  alone.  Anxiety 
gained  upon  her  in  leaps.  In  bitter  remorse  she 
upbraided  herself  for  ever  having  strayed  from 
the  blessed  protection  of  Miss  Joe  Hill's  au- 
thority. Gulfs  of  hideous  possibility  yawned 
at  her  feet;  imagination  faltered  at  the  things 
that  might  befall  a  lone  and  unprotected  lady 
in  this  bedlam  of  frivolity. 

Just  as  her  fear  was  turning  to  terror  the 
party  returned. 

"Oh,  here  you  are!"  cried  Floss.  "We 
168 


THE  WILD  OATS  OF  A  SPINSTER 

thought  we  had  lost  you.  It  was  just  dandy, 
Miss  Lucy;  you  ought  to  have  gone.  It  makes 
you  feel  like  your  feet  are  growing  right  out 
of  the  top  of  your  head.  Come  on ;  we  are  go- 
ing to  have  our  tintypes  taken. " 

Strengthened  by  the  fear  of  being  left  alone 
again,  Miss  Lucinda  rallied  her  courage,  and 
once  more  followed  in  their  wake.  She  was 
faint  and  exhausted,  but  the  one  grain  of  com- 
fort she  extracted  from  the  situation  was  that 
through  her  present  suffering  she  was  atoning 
for  her  sins. 

At  midnight  Dick  said:  " There's  only  one 
other  thing  to  do.  It's  more  fun  than  all  the 
rest  put  together.  Come  this  way." 

Miss  Lucinda  followed  blindly.  She  had 
ceased  to  think:  there  were  only  two  realities 
left  in  the  world,  French-heels  and  hair-pins. 

At  the  foot  of  a  flight  of  steps  the  party 
paused  to  buy  tickets. 

"You  can  wait  for  us  here,  Miss  Lucy,"  said 
Floss. 

Miss  Lucinda  protested  eagerly  that  she  was 
169 


THE  WILD  OATS  OF  A  SPINSTER 

not  too  tired  to  go  with  them.  The  prospect 
of  being  left  alone  again  nerved  her  to  climb 
to  any  height. 

"But,"  cried  Floss,  "if  you  get  up  there, 
there's  only  one  way  to  come  down.  You  have 
to—" 

"Let  her  come!"  interrupted  the  others  in 
laughing  chorus,  and,  to  Miss  Lucinda's  great 
relief,  she  was  allowed  to  pass  through  the  little 
gate. 

When  she  reached  the  top  of  the  long  stairs, 
she  looked  about  for  the  attraction.  A  wide 
inclined  plane  slanted  down  to  the  ground  floor, 
and  on  it  were  bumps  of  various  sizes  and 
shapes,  all  of  a  shining  smoothness.  She  had 
a  vague  idea  that  it  was  a  mammoth  map  for 
the  blind,  until  she  saw  Dick  and  Floss  sit  down 
at  the  top  and  go  sliding  to  the  bottom. 

"Come  on,  Miss  Lucinda!"  cried  May. 
"You  can't  get  down  any  other  way,  you  know. 
Look  out!  Here  I  go!" 

One  by  one  the  others  followed,  and  Miss  Lu- 
cinda could  not  distinguish  them  as  they  merged 
in  the  laughing  crowd  at  the  base. 

170 


THE  WILD  OATS  OF  A  SPINSTER 

Delay  was  fatal ;  they  would  lose  her  again  if 
she  hesitated.  In  desperation  she  gathered  her 
skirts  about  her,  and  let  herself  cautiously  down 
on  the  floor.  For  one  awful  moment  terror 
paralyzed  her,  then,  grasping  her  skirts  with 
one  hand  and  her  hat  with  the  other  and  closing 
her  eyes,  she  slid. 

Miss  Lucinda  did  not  "bump  the  bumps "; 
she  slid  gracefully  around  them,  describing 
fanciful  curves  and  loops  in  her  airy  flight. 
When  she  arrived  in  a  confused  bunch  on  the 
cushioned  platform  below,  she  was  greeted  with 
a  burst  of  applause. 

"Ain't  it  great?"  cried  Floss,  straightening 
Miss  Lucinda 's  hat  and  trying  to  get  her  to 
open  her  eyes.  ' i  Dick  says  you  are  the  gamest 
chaperon  he  ever  saw.  Sit  up  and  let  me  pin 
your  collar  straight. ' ' 

But  Miss  Lucinda 's  sense  of  direction  had 
evidently  been  disturbed,  for  she  did  not  yet 
know  which  was  up,  and  which  was  down.  She 
leaned  limply  against  Floss  and  tried  to  get 
her  breath. 

"Excuse  me,"  said  a  man's  voice  above  her, 
171 


THE  WILD  OATS  OF  A  SPINSTER 

"but  are  either  of  you  ladies  Mrs.  Lura  Dor- 
ing!' ' 

The  effect  was  electrical.  Miss  Lucinda  sat 
bolt  upright  and  stared  madly  about.  Tom 
Speckert  had  told  her  to  be  sure  to  answer  to 
that  name.  It  would  get  him  into  trouble  if  she 
failed  to  do  so. 

"Yes,  yes,"  she  gasped;  "I  am  Mrs.  Lura 
Doring. ' ' 

The  members  of  her  little  party  looked  at  her 
anxiously  and  ceased  to  laugh.  The  slide  had 
evidently  unsettled  her  mind. 

"Why,  this  is  Miss  Perkins — Miss  Lucinda 
Perkins  of  Locustwood,  Ohio,"  explained  Dick 
Benson  to  the  officer.  "She's  rather  upset  by 
her  tobogganing,  and  didn't  understand  you." 

"I  did,"  declared  Miss  Lucinda,  making  mys- 
terious signs  to  Dick  to  be  silent.  "It's  all 
right ;  I  am  Mrs.  Doring. ' ' 

The  officer  looked  suspiciously  from  one  to  the 
other,  then  consulted  his  memorandum: 
' '  Small,  slender  woman,  yellow  hair,  gray  eyes, 
answers  to  name  of  Mrs.  Lura  Doring.  Left 
Chicago  on  June  10." 

172 


THE  WILD  OATS  OF  A  SPINSTEE 

"When  did  she  get  to  New  York?"  asked  the 
officer. 

"A  week  ago  to-morrow,  on  the  eleventh," 
said  Floss. 

"Then  I  guess  I'll  have  to  take  her  up,"  said 
the  officer;  "she  answers  all  the  requirements. 
I've  got  a  warrant  for  her  arrest." 

*  <  Arrest ! ' '  gasped  Benson.    ' '  What  f or  f  " 

"For  forging  her  husband's  name,  and  de- 
frauding two  hotels  in  Chicago." 

"My  husband — "  Miss  Lucinda  staggered  to 
her  feet,  then,  catching  sight  of  the  crowd  that 
had  collected,  she  gave  a  fluttering  cry  and 
fainted  away  in  the  arms  of  the  law. 

When  Miss  Joe  Hill  arrived  in  New  York,  in 
answer  to  an  urgent  telegram,  she  went  directly 
to  work  with  her  usual  executive  ability  to  un- 
ravel the  mystery.  After  obtaining  the  full 
facts  in  the  case,  she  was  able  to  make  a  satis- 
factory explanation  to  the  officers  at  headquar- 
ters. Then  she  sent  the  girls  to  their  respective 
homes,  and  turned  her  full  attention  upon  Miss 
Lucinda. 

173 


THE  WILD  OATS  OF  A  SPINSTEE 

"The  barber  will  be  here  in  half  an  hour  to 
cut  your  hair,"  she  announced  on  the  eve  of 
their  departure  for  the  Catskills. 

' l  You  ought  not  to  be  so  good  to  me ! ' '  sobbed 
Miss  Lucinda,  who  was  lying  limply  on  a  couch. 

Miss  Joe  Hill  took  her  hand  firmly  and  said : 
"Lucinda,  error  and  illness  and  disorder  are 
man-made  perversions.  Let  the  past  week  be 
wiped  from  our  memories.  Once  we  are  in  the 
mountains  we  will  turn  the  formative  power  of 
our  thoughts  upon  things  invisible,  and  yield 
ourselves  to  the  higher  harmonies.'' 

The  next  morning,  Miss  Lucinda,  shorn  and 
penitent,  was  led  forth  from  the  scene  of  her 
recent  profligacy.  It  was  her  final  exit  from 
a  world  which  for  a  little  space  she  had  loved 
not  wisely  but  too  well. 


174 


CUPID  GOES  SLUMMING 


CUPID  GOES  SLUMMING 

IT  is  a  debatable  question  whether  love  is  a 
cause  or  an  effect,  whether  Adam  discov- 
ered a  heart  in  the  recesses  of  his  anatomy  be- 
fore or  after  the  appearance  of  Eve.  In  the 
case  of  Joe  Bidder  it  was  distinctly  the  former. 

At  nineteen  his  knowledge  of  the  tender  pas- 
sion consisted  of  dynamic  impressions  received 
across  the  footlights  at  an  angle  of  forty-five 
degrees.  Love  was  something  that  hovered 
with  the  calcium  light  about  beauty  in  distress, 
something  that  brought  the  hero  from  the  utter- 
most parts  of  the  earth  to  hurl  defiance  at  the 
villain  and  clasp  the  swooning  maiden  in  his 
arms ;  it  was  something  that  sent  a  fellow  down 
from  his  perch  in  the  peanut  gallery  with  his 
head  hot  and  his  hands  cold,  and  a  sort  of  bliss- 
ful misery  rioting  in  his  soul. 

Joe  lived  in  what  was  known  by  courtesy  as 
Bear  Ninth  Street.  "Bear  Ninth  Street"  has 

177 

• 


CUPID  GOES  SLUMMING 

a  sound  of  exclusive  aristocracy,  and  the  name 
was  a  matter  of  some  pride  to  the  dwellers  in 
the  narrow,  unpaved  alley  that  writhed  its  wa- 
tery way  between  two  rows  of  tumble-down 
cottages.  Joe's  family  consisted  of  his  father, 
whose  vocation  was  plumbing,  and  whose  avoca- 
tion was  driving  either  in  the  ambulance  or  the 
patrol  wagon;  his  mother,  who  had  discharged 
her  entire  debt  to  society  when  she  bestowed 
nine  healthy  young  citizens  upon  it ;  eight  young 
Eidders,  and  Joe  himself,  who  had  stopped 
school  at  twelve  to  assume  the  financial  respon- 
sibilities of  a  rapidly  increasing  family. 

Lack  of  time  and  the  limited  opportunities  of 
Bear  Ninth  Street,  together  with  an  uncon- 
trollable shyness,  had  brought  Joe  to  his  nine- 
teenth year  of  broad-shouldered,  muscular  man- 
hood, with  no  acquaintance  whatever  among  the 
girls.  But  where  a  shrine  is  built  for  Cupid 
and  the  tapers  are  kept  burning,  the  devotee  is 
seldom  disappointed. 

One  morning  in  October,  as  Joe  was  guiding 
his  rickety  wheel  around  the  mud  puddles  on 
his  way  to  the  cooper  shops,  he  saw  a  new  sign 

178 


CUPID  GOES  SLUMMING 

on  the  first  cottage  after  he  left  the  alley — 
"Mrs.  E.  Beaver,  Modiste  &  Dress  Maker. " 
In  the  yard  and  on  the  steps  were  a  confusion 
of  household  effects,  and  in  their  midst  a  girl 
with  a  pink  shawl  over  her  head. 

So  absorbed  was  Joe  in  open-mouthed  won- 
der over  the  "  Modiste, "  that  he  failed  to  see 
the  girl,  until  a  laughing  exclamation  made  him 
look  up. 

"Watch  out  I" 

"What's  the  matter?"  asked  Joe,  coming  to 
a  halt. 

"I  thought  maybe  you  didn't  know  your 
wheels  was  going  'round!"  the  girl  said  au- 
daciously, then  fled  into  the  house  and  slammed 
the  door. 

All  day  at  the  shops  Joe  worked  as  in  a  trance. 
Every  iron  rivet  that  he  drove  into  a  wooden 
hoop  was  duly  informed  of  the  romantic  occur- 
rence of  the  morning,  and  as  some  four  thou- 
sand rivets  are  fastened  into  four  thousand 
hoops  in  the  course  of  one  day,  it  will  be  seen 
that  the  matter  was  duly  considered.  The  stray 
spark  from  a  feminine  eye  had  kindled  such  a 

179 


CUPID  GOES  SLUMMING 

fierce  fire  in  his  heart  that  by  the  time  the  six 
o'clock  whistle  blew  the  conflagration  threw  a 
rosy  glow  over  the  entire  landscape. 

As  he  rode  home,  the  girl  was  sitting  on  the 
steps,  but  she  would  not  look  at  him.  Joe  had 
formulated  a  definite  course  of  action,  and 
though  the  utter  boldness  of  it  nearly  cost  him 
his.  balance,  he  adhered  to  it  strictly.  When 
just  opposite  her  gate,  without  turning  his  head 
or  his  eyes,  he  lifted  his  hat,  then  rode  at  a 
furious  pace  around  the  corner. 

"What  you  tidying  up  so  fer,  Joe?"  asked 
his  mother  that  night;  "you  goin'  out!" 

"No,"  said  Joe  evasively,  as  he  endeavoured 
in  vain  to  coax  back  the  shine  to  an  old  pair  of 
shoes. 

' l  Well,  I  'm  right  glad  you  ain  't.  Berney  and 
Dick  ain't  got  up  the  coal,  and  there's  all  them 
dishes  to  wash,  and  the  baby  she 's  got  a  misery 
in  her  year. ' ' 

"Has  paw  turned  up? "  asked  Joe. 

"Yes,"  answered  Mrs.  Bidder  indifferently. 
"He  looked  in  'bout  three  o'clock.  He  was 
tolerable  full  then,  and  I  'spec  he's  been  took 

180 


CUPID  GOES  SLUMMING 

up  by  now.  He  said  he  was  goin'  to  buy  me 
a  bird-cage  with  a  bird  in  it,  but  I  surely  hope 
he  won't.  Them  white  mice  he  brought  me  on 
his  last  spree  chewed  a  hole  in  Berney's  stock- 
ing; besides,  I  never  did  care  much  for  birds. 
Good  lands!  what  are  you  goin'  to  wash  yer 
head  for!" 

Joe  was  substituting  a  basin  of  water  for  a 
small  girl  in  the  nearest  kitchen  chair,  and  a 
howl  ensued. 

"Shut  up,  Lottie!"  admonished  Mrs.  Bidder, 
"you  ain't  any  too  good  to  set  on  the  floor. 
It's  a  good  thing  this  is  pay-day,  Joe,  for  the 
rent's  due  and  four  of  the  children's  got  their 
feet  on  the  ground.  You  paid  up  the  grocery 
last  week,  didn't  you?" 

Joe  nodded  a  dripping  head. 

"Well,  I'll  jes'  git  yer  money  out  of  yer 
coat  while  I  think  about  it,"  she  went  on  as  she 
rummaged  in  his  pocket  and  brought  out  nine 
dollars. 

"Leave  me  a  quarter,"  demanded  Joe,  gasp- 
ing beneath  his  soap-suds. 

"All  right,"  said  Mrs.  Bidder  accommodat- 
181 


CUPID  GOES  SLUMMING 

ingly;  "now  that  Bob  and  Ike  are  gitting  fifty 
cents  a  day,  it  ain't  so  hard  to  make  out.  I'll 
be  gittin'  a  new  dress  first  thing,  you  know." 

"I  seen  one  up  at  the  corner  I"  said  Joe. 

"A  new  dress?" 

"Naw,  a  dressmaker.  She's  got  out  her 
sign." 

"What's  her  name?"  asked  Mrs.  Eidder,  keen 
with  interest. 

"Mrs.  E.  Beaver,  Modeste,"  repeated  Joe 
from  the  sign  that  floated  in  letters  of  gold  in 
his  memory. 

"I  knowed  a  Mrs.  Beaver  wunst,  up  on 
Eleventh  Street — a  big,  fat  woman  that  got  in 
a  fuss  with  the  preacher  and  smacked  his  jaws." 

"Did  she  have  any  children?"  asked  Joe. 

"Seems  like  there  was  one,  a  pretty  little 
tow-headed  girl." 

"That's  her,"  announced  Joe  conclusively. 
"What  was  her  name?" 

"Lawsee,  I  don't  know.  I  never  would  'a' 
ricollected  Mrs.  Beaver  'cepten  she  was  such 
a  tarnashious  woman,  always  a-tearin'  up 
stumps,  and  never  happy  unless  she  was  rip- 

182 


CUPID  GOES  SLUMMING 

pitin'  'bout  somethin7.  What  you  want?  A 
needle  and  thread  to  mend  your  coat?  Why, 
what  struck  you?  You  been  wearin'  it  that 
a-way  for  a  month.  You  better  leave  it  be  'til 
I  git  time  to  fix  it. ' ' 

But  Joe  had  determined  to  work  out  the 
salvation  of  his  own  wardrobe.  Late  in  the 
evening  after  the  family  had  retired,  he  sat 
before  the  stove  with  back  humped  and  knees 
drawn  up  trying  to  coax  a  coarse  thread  through 
a  small  needle.  Surely  no  rich  man  need  have 
any  fear  about  entering  the  kingdom  of  heaven 
since  Joe  Bidder  managed  to  get  that  particu- 
lar thread  through  the  eye  of  that  particular 
needle ! 

But  when  a  boy  is  put  at  a  work-bench  at 
twelve  years  of  age  and  does  the  same  thing 
day  in  and  day  out  for  seven  long  years,  he 
may  have  lost  all  of  the  things  that  youth 
holds  dear,  but  one  thing  he  is  apt  to  have 
learned,  a  dogged,  plodding,  unquestioning  pa- 
tience that  shoves  silently  along  at  the  ap- 
pointed task  until  the  work  is  done. 

By  midnight  all  the  rents  were  mended  and 
183 


CUPID  GOES  SLUMMING 

a  large  new  patch  adorned  each  elbow.  The 
patches,  to  be  sure,  were  blue,  and  the  coat  was 
black,  but  the  stitches  were  set  with  mechanical 
regularity.  Joe  straightened  his  aching  shoul- 
ders and  held  the  garment  at  arm's  length  with 
a  smile.  It  was  his  first  votive  offering  at  the 
shrine  of  love. 

The  effect  of  Joe's  efforts  were  prompt  and 
satisfactory.  The  next  day  being  Sunday,  he 
spent  the  major  part  of  it  in  passing  and  re- 
passing  the  house  on  the  corner,  only  going 
home  between  times  to  remove  the  mud  from 
his  shoes  and  give  an  extra  brush  to  his  hair. 
The  girl,  meanwhile,  was  devoting  her  day  to 
sweeping  off  the  front  pavement,  a  scant  three 
feet  of  pathway  from  her  steps  to  the  wooden 
gate.  Every  time  Joe  passed  she  looked  up 
and  smiled,  and  every  time  she  smiled  Joe 
suffered  all  the  symptoms  of  locomotor 
ataxia ! 

By  afternoon  his  emotional  nature  had 
reached  the  saturation  point.  Without  any 
conscious  volition  on  his  part,  his  feet  carried 
him  to  the  gate  and  refused  to  carry  him  far- 

184 


CUPID  GOES  SLUMMING 

ther.  His  voice  then  decided  to  speak  for  it- 
self, and  in  strange,  hollow  tones  he  heard  him- 
self saying — 

"Say,  do  you  wanter  go  to  the  show  with 
met" 

1  i  Sure, ' '  said  the  pink  fascinator.     * '  When  I ' ' 

"I  don't  care,"  said  Joe,  too  much  embar- 
rassed to  remember  the  days  of  the  week. 

"To-morrer  night !"  prompted  the  girl. 

"I  don't  care,"  said  Joe,  and  the  conversa- 
tion seeming  to  languish,  he  moved  on. 

After  countless  eons  of  time  the  next  night 
arrived.  It  found  Joe  and  his  girl  cosily 
squeezed  in  between  two  fat  women  in  the  gal- 
lery of  the  People's  Theatre.  Joe  had  to  sit 
sideways  and  double  his  feet  up,  but  he  would 
willingly  have  endured  a  rack  of  torture  for  the 
privilege  of  looking  down  on  that  fluffy,  blond 
pompadour  under  its  large  bow,  and  of  receiv- 
ing the  sparkling  glances  that  were  flashed  up 
at  him  from  time  to  time. 

"I  ain't  ever  gone  with  a  feller  that  I  didn't 
know  his  name  before!"  she  confided  before 
the  curtain  rose. 

185 


CUPID  GOES  SLUMMING 

"It's  Joe,"  he  said,  "Joe  Eidder.  What's 
your  front  name?" 

"Miss  Beaver,"  she  said  mischievously. 
"What  do  you  think  it  is?" 

Joe  could  not  guess. 

"Say,"  she  went  on,  "I  knew  who  you  was 
all  right  even  if  I  didn't  know  yer  name.  I 
seen  you  over  to  the  hall  when  they  had  the 
boxin'  match." 

"The  last  one?" 

"Yes,  when  you  and  Ben  Schenk  was  fightin'. 
Say,  you  didn  't  do  a  thing  to  him ! ' ' 

The  surest  of  all  antidotes  to  masculine  shy- 
ness was  not  without  its  immediate  effect.  Joe 
straightened  his  shoulders  and  smiled  compla- 
cently. 

"Didn't  I  massacre  him?"  he  said.  "That 
there  was  a  half -Nelson  holt  I  give  him.  It  put 
him  out  of  business  all  right,  all  right.  Say, 
I  never  knowed  you  was  there ! ' ' 

"You  bet  I  was,"  said  his  companion  in  hon- 
est admiration ;  '  '  that  was  when  I  got  stuck  on 
you!" 

Before  he  could  fully  comprehend  the  sig- 
186 


CUPID  GOES  SLUMMING 

nificance  of  this  confession,  the  curtain  rose, 
and  love  itself  had  to  make  way  for  the  tragic 
and  absorbing  career  of  "The  Widowed  Bride." 
By  the  end  of  the  third  act  Joe 's  emotions  were 
so  wrought  upon  by  the  unhappy  fate  of  the 
heroine,  that  he  rose  abruptly  and,  muttering 
something  about  "gittin'  some  gum,"  fled  to 
the  rear.  When  he  returned  and  squeezed  his 
way  back  to  his  seat  he  found  "Miss  Beaver" 
with  red  eyes  and  a  dejected  mien. 

"What's  the  matter  with  you!"  he  asked 
banteringly. 

"My  shoe  hurts  me,"  said  Miss  Beaver  eva- 
sively. 

"What  you  givin'  me?"  asked  Joe,  with  fine 
superiority.  "These  here  kinds  of  play  never 
hurts  my  feelin's  none.  Catch  me  cryin'  at  a 
show!" 

But  Miss  Beaver  was  too  much  moved  to  re- 
cover herself  at  once.  She  sat  in  limp  dejec- 
tion and  surreptitiously  dabbed  her  eyes  with 
her  moist  ball  of  a  handkerchief. 

Joe  was  at  a  loss  to  know  how  to  meet  the 
situation  until  his  hand,  quite  by  chance, 

187 


CUPID  GOES  SLUMMING 

touched  hers  as  it  lay  on  the  arm  of  her  chair. 
He  withdrew  it  as  quickly  as  if  he  had  received 
an  electric  shock,  but  the  next  moment,  like  a 
lodestone  following  a  magnet,  it  traveled  slowly 
back  to  hers. 

From  that  time  on  Joe  sat  staring  straight 
ahead  of  him  in  embarrassed  ecstasy,  while 
Miss  Beaver,  thus  comforted,  was  able  to  pass 
through  the  tragic  finale  of  the  last  act  with 
remarkable  composure. 

When  the  time  came  to  say  "Good  night" 
at  the  Beavers'  door,  all  Joe's  reticence  and 
awkwardness  returned.  He  watched  her  let 
herself  in  and  waited  until  she  lit  a  candle. 
Then  he  found  himself  out  on  the  pavement 
in  the  dark  feeling  as  if  the  curtain  had  gone 
down  on  the  best  show  he  had  ever  seen.  Sud- 
denly a  side  window  was  raised  cautiously  and 
he  heard  his  name  called  softly.  He  had  turned 
the  corner,  but  he  went  back  to  the  fence. 

"Say!"  whispered  the  voice  at  the  window, 
6 '  I  forgot  to  tell  you—  It 's  Mittie. ' ' 

The  course  of  true  love  thus  auspiciously 
started  might  have  flowed  on  to  blissful  fulfil- 

188 


CUPID  GOES  SLUMMING 

ment  had  it  not  encountered  the  inevitable  bar- 
rier in  the  formidable  person  of  Mrs.  Beaver. 
Not  that  she  disapproved  of  Mittie  receiving 
attention;  on  the  contrary,  it  was  her  oft-re- 
peated boast  that  "Mittie  had  been  keepin' 
company  with  the  boys  ever  since  she  was  six, 
and  she  'spected  she'd  keep  right  on  till  she 
was  sixty. "  It  was  not  attention  in  the  ab- 
stract that  she  objected  to,  it  was  rather  the 
threatening  of  "a  steady, "  and  that  steady,  the 
big,  awkward,  shy  Joe  Bidder.  With  serpen- 
tine wisdom  she  instituted  a  counter-attraction. 
Under  her  skilful  manipulation,  Ben  Schenk, 
the  son  of  the  saloon-keeper,  soon  developed 
into  a  rival  suitor.  Ben  was  engaged  at  a  down- 
town pool-room,  and  wore  collars  on  a  week- 
day without  any  apparent  discomfort.  The 
style  of  his  garments,  together  with  his  easy 
air  of  sophistication,  entirely  captivated  Mrs. 
Beaver,  while  Ben  on  his  part  found  it  increas- 
ingly pleasant  to  lounge  in  the  Beavers*  best 
parlour  chair  and  recount  to  a  credulous  audi- 
ence the  prominent  part  which  he  was  taking  in 
all  the  affairs  of  the  day. 

189 


CUPID  GOES  SLUMMING 

Matters  reached  a  climax  one  night  when, 
after  some  close  financing,  Joe  Bidder  took 
Mittie  to  the  Skating  Eink.  An  unexpected 
run  on  the  tin  savings  bank  at  the  Bidders' 
had  caused  a  temporary  embarrassment,  and 
by  the  closest  calculation  Joe  could  do  no  bet- 
ter than  pay  for  two  entrance-tickets  and  hire 
one  pair  of  skates.  He  therefore  found  it  nec- 
essary to  develop  a  sprained  ankle,  which  grew 
rapidly  worse  as  they  neared  the  rink. 

"I  don't  think  you  orter  skate  on  it,  Joe!" 
said  Mittie  sympathetically. 

"Oh,  I  reckon  I  kin  manage  it  all  0.  K.,"  said 
Joe. 

'  *  But  I  ain  't  agoin '  to  let  you ! ' '  she  declared 
with  divine  authority.  "We  can  just  set  down 
and  rubber  at  the  rest  of  them. ' ' 

"Naw,  you  don't,"  said  Joe;  "you  kin  go  on 
an'  skate,  and  I'll  watch  you." 

The  arrangement  proved  entirely  satisfactory 
so  long  as  Mittie  paused  on  every  other  round 
to  rest  or  to  get  him  to  adjust  a  strap,  or  to 
hold  her  hat,  but  when  Ben  Schenk  arrived  on 
the  scene,  the  situation  was  materially  changed. 

190 


CUPID  GOES  SLUMMING 

It  was  sufficiently  irritating  to  see  Ben  go 
through  an  exhaustive  exhibition  of  his  accom- 
plishments under  the  admiring  glances  of  Mit- 
tie,  but  when  he  condescended  to  ask  her  to 
skate,  and  even  offered  to  teach  her  some  new 
figures,  Joe's  irritation  rose  to  ire.  In  vain 
he  tried  to  catch  her  eye ;  she  was  laughing  and 
clinging  to  Ben  and  giving  all  her  attention  to 
his  instructions. 

Joe  sat  sullen  and  indignant,  savagely  biting 
his  nails.  He  would  have  parted  with  every- 
thing he  had  in  the  world  at  that  moment  for 
three  paltry  nickels ! 

On  and  on  went  the  skaters,  and  on  and  on 
went  the  music,  and  Joe  turned  his  face  to  the 
wall  and  doggedly  waited.  When  at  last  Mittie 
came  to  him  flushed  and  radiant,  he  had  no 
word  of  greeting  for  her. 

"Did  you  see  all  the  new  steps  Mr.  Ben 
learnt  me ! ' '  she  asked. 

"Naw,"  said  Joe. 

"Does  yer  foot  hurt  you,  Joe?" 

"Naw,"  said  Joe. 

Mittie  was  too  versed  in  masculine  moods 
191 


CUPID  GOES  SLUMMING 

to  press  the  subject.  She  waited  until  they 
were  out  under  the  starlight  in  the  clear  stretch 
of  common  near  home.  Then  she  slipped  her 
hand  through  his  arm  and  said  coaxingly — 

"Say  now,  Joe,  what  you  kickin'  'bout?" 

"Him,"  said  Joe  comprehensively. 

"Mr.  Ben?  Why,  he's  one  of  our  best 
friends.  Maw  likes  him  better 'n  anybody  I 
ever  kept  company  with.  What  have  all  you 
fellers  got  against  him?" 

"He  was  black  marveled  at  the  hall  all 
right,"  said  Joe  grimly. 

"What  for?" 

"It  ain't  none  of  my  business  to  tell  what 
for,"  said  Joe,  though  his  lips  ached  to  tell 
what  he  knew. 

"Maw  says  all  you  fellows  are  jealous  'cause 
he  talks  so  pretty  and  wears  such  stylish 
clothes." 

"We  might,  too,  if  we  got  'em  like  he  done," 
Joe  began,  then  checked  himself.  * '  Say,  Mittie, 
why  don 't  yer  maw  like  me  ? ' ' 

"She  says  you  haven't  got  any  school  edu- 
cation and  don't  talk  good  grammar." 

192 


CUPID  GOES  SLUMMING 

"Don't  I  talk  good  grammar ?"  asked  Joe 
anxiously. 

"I  don't  know,"  said  Mittie;  " that's  what 
she  says.  How  long  did  you  go  to  school?" 

"Me?  Oh,  off  and  on  'bout  two  year.  The 
old  man  was  always  poorly,  and  Maw,  she  had 
to  work  out,  till  me  an*  the  boys  done  got 
big  enough  to  work.  'Fore  that  I  had  to  stay 
home  and  mind  the  kids.  Don 't  I  talk  like  other 
fellers,  Mittie?" 

"You  talk  better  than  some,"  said  Mittie 
loyally. 

After  he  left  her,  Joe  reviewed  the  matter 
carefully.  He  thought  of  the  few  educated  peo- 
ple he  knew — the  boss  at  the  shops,  the  preacher 
up  on  Twelfth  Street,  the  doctor  who  sewed  up 
his  head  after  he  stopped  a  runaway  team,  even 
Ben  Schenk,  who  had  gone  through  the  eighth 
grade.  Yes,  there  was  a  difference.  Being 
clean  and  wearing  good  clothes  were  not  the 
only  things. 

When  he  got  home,  he  tiptoed  into  the  front 
room,  and  picking  his  way  around  the  various 
beds  and  pallets,  took  Berney's  school  satchel 

193 


CUPID  GOES  SLUMMING 

from  the  top  of  the  wardrobe.  Eetracing  his 
steps,  he  returned  to  the  kitchen,  and  with 
his  hat  still  on  and  his  coat  collar  turned  up, 
he  began  to  take  an  inventory  of  his  mental 
stock. 

One  after  another  of  the  dog-eared,  grimy 
books  he  pondered  over,  and  one  after  an- 
other he  laid  aside,  with  a  puzzled,  distressed 
look  deepening  in  his  face. 

"Berney  she  ain't  but  fourteen  an'  she  gits 
on  to  'em,"  he  said  to  himself;  " looks  like  I 
orter." 

Once  more  he  seized  the  nearest  book,  and 
with  the  courage  of  despair  repeated  the  sen- 
tences again  and  again  to  himself. 

"That  you,  Joe?"  asked  Mrs.  Bidder  from 
the  next  room  an  hour  later.  "I  didn't  know 
you'd  come.  Yer  paw  sent  word  by  old  man 
Jackson  that  he  was  at  Hank's  Exchange  way 
down  on  Market  Street,  and  f er  you  to  come  git 
him." 

"It's  twelve  o'clock,"  remonstrated  Joe. 

"I  know  it,"  said  Mrs.  Eidder,  yawning,  "but 
I  reckon  you  better  go.  The  old  man  always 

194 


CUPID  GOES  SLUMMING 

gits  the  rheumatiz  when  he  lays  out  all  night, 
and  that  there  rheumatiz  medicine  cost  sixty- 
five  cents  a  bottle ! ' ' 

"All  right, "  said  Joe  with  a  resignation  bom 
of  experience,  "but  don't  you  go  and  put  no 
more  of  the  kids  in  my  bed.  Jack  and  Gus  kick 
the  stuffln'  out  of  me  now." 

And  with  this  parting  injunction  he  went 
wearily  out  into  the  night,  giving  up  his  sirug- 
gle  with  Minerva,  only  to  begin  the  next  round 
with  Bacchus. 

The  seeds  of  ambition,  though  sown  late,  grew 
steadily,  and  Joe  became  so  desirous  of  prov- 
ing worthy  of  the  consideration  of  Mrs.  Beaver 
that  he  took  the  boss  of  the  shops  partially  into 
his  confidence. 

"It's  a  first-rate  idea,  Joe,"  said  the  boss, 
a  big,  capable  fellow  who  had  worked  his  way 
up  from  the  bottom.  "I  could  move  you  right 
along  the  line  if  you  had  a  better  education.  I 
have  a  good  offer  up  in  Chicago  next  year;  if 
you  can  get  more  book  sense  in  your  head,  I 
will  take  you  along." 

"Where  can  I  get  it  at?"  asked  Joe,  some- 
195 


CUPID  GOES  SLUMMING 

'what  dubious  of  his  own  power  of  achievement. 

" Night  school, "  said  the  boss.  "I  know  a 
man  that  teaches  in  the  Settlement  over  on 
Burk  Street.  I'll  put  you  in  there  if  you  like." 

Now,  the  prospect  of  going  to  school  to  a 
man  who  had  been  head  of  a  family  for  seven 
years,  who  had  been  the  champion  scrapper  of 
the  South  End,  who  was  in  the  midst  of  a  critical 
love  affair,  was  trebly  humiliating.  But  Joe 
was  game,  and  while  he  determined  to  keep  the 
matter  as  secret  as  possible,  he  agreed  to  the 
boss's  proposition. 

"You're  mighty  stingy  with  yourself  these 
days!"  said  Mittie  Beaver  one  night  a  month 
later,  when  he  stopped  on  his  way  to  school. 

Joe  grinned  somewhat  foolishly.  "I  come 
«very  evenin',"  he  said. 

"For  'bout  ten  minutes,"  said  Mittie,  with  a 
toss  of  her  voluminous  pompadour;  "there's 
some  wants  more'n  ten  minutes." 

"Ben  Schenk?"  asked  Joe,  alert  with  jeal- 
ousy. 

"  I  ain  't  sayin ', ' '  went  on  Mittie.  '  '  What  do 
you  do  of  nights,  hang  around  the  hall?" 

196 


CUPID  GOES  SLUMMING 

"Naw,"  said  Joe  indignantly.  " There  ain't 
nobody  can  say  they  Ve  sawn  me  around  the  hall 
sence  I  Ve  went  with  you ! ' ' 

"Well,  where  do  you  go?" 

"I'm  training"  said  Joe  evasively. 

"I  don't  believe  you  like  me  as  much  as  you 
used  to,"  said  Mittie  plaintively. 

Joe  looked  at  her  dumbly.  His  one  thought 
from  the  time  he  cooked  his  own  early  break- 
fast, down  to  the  moment  when  he  undressed 
in  the  cold  and  dropped  into  his  place  in  bed 
between  Gussie  and  Dick,  was  of  her.  The  love 
of  her  made  his  back  stop  aching  as  he  bent 
hour  after  hour  over  the  machine;  it  made  all 
the  problems  and  hard  words  and  new  ideas  at 
night  school  come  straight  at  last;  it  made  the 
whole  sordid,  ugly  day  swing  round  the  glorious 
ten  minutes  that  they  spent  together  in  the  twi- 
light. 

"Yes,  I  like  you  all  right,"  he  said,  twisting 
his  big,  grease-stained  hands  in  embarrassment. 
"You're  the  onliest  girl  I  ever  could  care  about. 
Besides,  I  couldn't  go  with  no  other  girl  if  I 
wanted  to,  'cause  I  don't  know  none." 

197 


CUPID  GOES  SLUMMING 

Is  it  small  wonder  that  Ben  Schenk's  glib 
protestations,  reinforced  by  Mrs.  Beaver 's  own 
zealous  approval,  should  have  in  time  outclassed 
the  humble  Joe?  The  blow  fell  just  when  the 
second  term  of  night  school  was  over,  and  Joe 
was  looking  forward  to  long  summer  evenings 
of  unlimited  joy. 

He  had  bought  two  tickets  for  a  river  excur- 
sion, and  was  hurrying  into  the  Beavers '  when 
he  encountered  a  stolid  bulwark  in  the  form  of 
Mrs.  Beaver,  whose  portly  person  seemed  per- 
manently wedged  into  the  narrow  aperture  of 
the  front  door.  She  sat  in  silent  majesty,  her 
hands  just  succeeding  in  clasping  each  other 
around  her  ample  waist.  Had  she  closed  her 
eyes,  she  might  have  passed  for  a  placid,  ami- 
able person,  whose  angles  of  disposition  had 
also  become  curves.  But  Mrs.  Beaver  did  not 
close  her  eyes.  She  opened  them  as  widely  as 
the  geography  of  her  face  would  permit,  and 
coldly  surveyed  Joe  Eidder. 

Mrs.  Beaver  was  a  born  manager;  she  had 
managed  her  husband  into  an  untimely  grave, 
she  had  managed  her  daughter  from  the  hour 

198 


CUPID  GOES  SLUMMING 

she  was  born,  she  had  dismissed  three  preach- 
ers, induced  two  women  to  leave  their  husbands, 
and  now  dogmatically  announced  herself  arbiter 
of  fashions  and  conduct  in  Eear  Ninth  Street. 

"No,  she  can't  see  you,"  she  said  firmly  in 
reply  to  Joe's  question.  " She's  going  out  to 
a  dance  party  with  Mr.  Schenk. ' ' 

"Where  at?"  demanded  Joe,  who  still  trem- 
bled in  her  presence. 

"Somewheres  down  town,"  said  Mrs.  Beaver, 
"to  a  real  swell  party." 

"He  oughtn't  to  take  her  to  no  down-town 
dance,"  said  Joe,  his  indignation  getting  the 
better  of  his  shyness.  "I  don't  want  her  to  go, 
and  I'm  going  to  tell  her  so." 

"In-deed!"  said  Mrs.  Beaver  in  scorn. 
"And  what  have  you  got  to  say  about  it?  I 
guess  Mr.  Schenk 's  got  the  right  to  take  her 
anywhere  he  wants  to ! " 

"What  right?"  demanded  Joe,  getting  sud- 
denly a  bit  dizzy. 

"  'Cause  he's  got  engaged  to  her.  He's  go- 
ing to  give  her  a  real  handsome  turquoise  ring, 
fourteen-carat  gold." 

199 


CUPID  GOES  SLUMMING 

"Didn't  Mittie  send  me  no  word?"  faltered 
Joe. 

."No,"  said  Mrs.  Beaver  unhesitatingly, 
though  she  had  in  her  pocket  a  note  for  him 
from  the  unhappy  Mittie. 

Joe  fumbled  for  his  hat.  "I  guess  I  better 
be  goin',"  be  said,  a  lump  rising  ominously 
in  his  throat.  He  got  the  gate  open  and  made 
his  way  half  dazed  around  the  corner.  As  he 
did  so,  he  saw  a  procession  of  small  Bidders 
bearing  joyously  down  upon  him. 

"Joe!"  shrieked  Lottie,  arriving  first,  "Maw 
says  hurry  on  home ;  we  got  another  new  baby 
to  our  house." 

During  the  weeks  that  followed,  Bear  Ninth 
Street  was  greatly  thrilled  over  the  unusual 
event  of  a  home  wedding.  The  reticence  of 
the  groom  was  more  than  made  up  for  by  the 
bulletins  of  news  issued  daily  by  Mrs.  Beaver. 
To  use  that  worthy  lady's  own  words,  "she  was 
in  her  elements !"  She  organised  various  com- 
mittees— on  decoration,  on  refreshment,  and 
even  on  the  bride's  trousseau,  tactfully  permit- 
ting each  assistant  to  contribute  in  some  way 

200 


CUPID  GOES  SLUMMING 

to    the    general    grandeur    of    the    occasion. 

"I  am  going  to  have  this  a  real  showy  wed- 
ding, "  she  said  from  her  point  of  vantage  by 
the  parlour  window,  where  she  sat  like  a  field- 
marshal  and  issued  her  orders.  "  Those  paper 
fringes  want  to  go  clean  across  every  one  of  the 
shelves,  and  you  all  must  make  enough  paper 
roses  to  pin  'round  the  edges  of  all  the  curtains. 
Everything's  got  to  look  gay  and  festive." 

"Mittie  don't  look  very  gay,"  ventured  one 
of  the  assistants.  "I  seen  her  in  the  kitchen 
cryin'  a  minute  ago." 

" Mittie 's  a  fool!"  announced  Mrs.  Beaver 
calmly.  "She  don't  know  a  good  thing  when 
she  sees  it!  Get  them  draperies  up  a  little 
higher  in  the  middle;  I'm  going  to  hang  a 
silver  horseshoe  on  to  the  loop." 

The  wedding  night  arrived,  and  the  Beaver 
cottage  was  filled  to  suffocation  with  the  elite 
of  Bear  Ninth  Street.  The  guests  found  it 
difficult  to  circulate  freely  in  the  room  on  ac- 
count of  the  elaborate  and  aggressive  decora- 
tions, so  they  stood  in  silent  rows  awaiting  the 
approaching  ceremony.  As  the  appointed  hour 

201 


CUPID  GOES  SLUMMING 

drew  near,  and  none  of  the  groom's  family  ar- 
rived, a  few  whispered  comments  were  ex- 
changed. 

"It's  'most  time  to  begin,"  whispered  the 
preacher  to  Mrs.  Beaver,  whose  keen  black 
eyes  had  been  watching  the  door  with  grow- 
ing impatience. 

"Well,  we  won't  wait  on  nobody,"  she  said 
positively,  as  she  rose  and  left  the  room  to 
give  the  signal. 

In  the  kitchen  she  found  great  consternation : 
the  bride,  pale  and  dejected  in  all  her  finery, 
sat  on  the  table,  all  the  chairs  being  in  the  par- 
lour. 

"What's  the  matter?"  demanded  Mrs. 
Beaver. 

"He  ain't  come!"  announced  one  of  the 
women  in  tragic  tones. 

"Ben  Schenk  ain't  here?"  asked  Mrs.  Beaver 
in  accents  so  awful  that  her  listeners  quaked. 
"Well,  I'll  see  the  reason  why!" 

Out  into  the  night  she  sallied,  picking  her  way 
around  the  puddles  until  she  reached  the  saloom 
at  the  corner. 

202 


CUPID  GOES  SLUMMING 

"Where's  Ben  Schenk?"  she  demanded 
sternly  of  the  men  around  the  bar. 

There  was  an  ominous  silence,  broken  only 
by  the  embarrassed  shuffling  of  feet. 

Drawing  herself  up,  Mrs.  Beaver  thumped 
the  counter. 

"Where's  he  at?"  she  repeated,  glaring  at 
the  most  embarrassed  of  the  lot. 

"He  don't  know  where  he's  at,"  said  the 
man.  "I  rickon  he  cilebrated  a  little  too  much 
fer  the  weddin'." 

"Can  he  stand  up?"  demanded  Mrs.  Beaver. 

"Not  without  starchin',"  said  the  man,  and 
amid  the  titter  that  followed,  Mrs.  Beaver  made 
her  exit. 

On  the  corner  she  paused  to  reconnoitre. 
Across  the  street  was  her  gaily  lighted  cottage, 
where  all  the  guests  were  waiting.  She  thought 
of  the  ignominy  that  would  follow  their  abrupt 
dismissal,  she  thought  of  the  refreshments  that 
must  be  used  to-night  or  never,  she  thought  of 
the  little  bride  sitting  disconsolate  on  the 
kitchen  table. 

With  a  sudden  determination  she  decided  to 
203 


CUPID  GOES  SLUMMING 

lead  a  forlorn  hope.  Facing  about,  she  marched 
weightily  around  to  the  rear  of  the  saloon  and 
began  laboriously  to  climb  the  steps  that  lead 
to  the  hall.  At  the  door  she  paused  and  made 
a  rapid  survey  of  the  room  until  she  found  what 
she  was  looking  for. 

"Joe  Bidder !"  she  called  peremptorily. 

Joe,  haggard  and  listless,  put  down  his  bil- 
liard-cue and  came  to  the  door. 

Five  minutes  later  a  breathless  figure  pre- 
sented himself  at  the  Beaver  kitchen.  He  had 
on  a  clean  shirt  and  his  Sunday  clothes,  and 
while  he  wore  no  collar,  a  clean  handkerchief 
was  neatly  pinned  about  his  neck. 

"Everybody  but  the  bride  and  groom  come 
into  the  parlour,"  commanded  Mrs.  Beaver. 
"I'm  a-going  to  make  a  speech,  and  tell  'em 
that  the  bride  has  done  changed  her  mind." 

Joe  and  Mittie,  left  alone,  looked  at  each 
other  in  dazed  rapture.  She  was  the  first  to 
recover. 

"Joe!"  she  cried,  moving  timidly  towards 
him,  "ain't  you  mad?  Do  you  still  want  me?" 

Joe,  with  both  hands  entangled  in  her  veil 
204 


CUPID  GOES  SLUMMING 

and  his  feet  lost  in  her  train,  looked  down  at 
her  through  swimming  eyes. 

' ' Want  yer?"  he  repeated,  and  his  lips  trem- 
bled, "gee  whiz!  I  feel  like  I  done  ribbeted  a 
hoop  round  the  hull  world!" 

The  signal  was  given  for  them  to  enter  the 
parlour,  and  without  further  interruption  the 
ceremony  proceeded,  if  not  in  exact  accordance 
with  the  plans  of  Mrs.  Beaver,  at  least  in  obedi- 
ence to  the  mandate  of  a  certain  little  autocrat 
who  sometimes  takes  a  hand  in  the  affairs  of 
man  even  in  Bear  Ninth  Street. 


205 


THE  SOUL  OF  0  SANA  SAN 


THE  SOUL  OF  0  SANA  SAN 

OSANA  SAN  stood  in  the  heart  of  a  joy- 
ous world,  as  much  a  part  of  the  radi- 
ant, throbbing,  irresponsible  spring  as  the 
golden  butterfly  which  fluttered  in  her  hand. 
Through  the  close-stemmed  bamboos  she  could 
see  the  sparkling  river  racing  away  to  the  In- 
land Sea,  while  slow-moving  junks,  with  their 
sixfold  sails,  glided  with  almost  imperceptible 
motion  toward  a  far-distant  port.  From  below, 
across  the  rice-fields,  came  the  shouts  and  laugh- 
ter of  naked  bronze  babies  who  played  at  the 
water's  edge,  and  from  above,  high  up  on  the 
ferny  cliff,  a  mellow-throated  temple  bell  an- 
swered the  call  of  each  vagrant  breeze.  Far 
away,  shutting  out  the  strange,  big  world,  the 
luminous  mountains  hung  in  the  purple  mists  of 
May. 

And  every  note  of  color  in  the  varied  land- 
scape, from  the  purple  irises  whose  royal  reflec- 

209 


THE  SOUL  OF  0  SANA  SAN 

tion  stained  the  water  below,  to  the  rosy-tipped 
clover  at  the  foot  of  the  hill,  was  repeated  in  the 
kimono  and  obi  of  the  child  who  flitted  about  in 
the  grasses,  catching  butterflies  in  her  long- 
handled  net. 

It  was  in  the  days  of  the  Japanese-Russian 
War,  but  the  constant  echo  of  the  great  conflict 
that  sounded  around  her  disturbed  her  no  more 
than  it  did  the  birds  overhead.  All  day  long  the 
bugles  sounded  from  the  parade-grounds,  and 
always  and  always  the  soldiers  went  marching 
away  to  the  front.  Around  the  bend  in  the  river 
were  miniature  fortifications  where  recruits 
learned  to  make  forts  and  trenches,  and  to  shoot 
through  tiny  holes  in  a  wall  at  imaginary  Rus- 
sian troopers.  Down  in  the  town  below  were 
long  white  hospitals  where  twenty  thousand  siek 
and  wounded  soldiers  lay.  No  thought  of  the 
horror  of  it  came  to  trouble  0  Sana  San.  The 
cherry-trees  gladly  and  freely  gave  up  their 
blossoms  to  the  wind,  and  so  much  the  country 
give  up  its  men  for  the  Emperor.  Her  father 
had  marched  away,  then  one  brother,  then  an- 
other, and  she  had  held  up  her  hands  and 

210 


THE  SOUL  OF  0  SANA  SAN 

•houted,  "  Banzai !"  and  smiled  because  her 
mother  smiled.  Everything  was  vague  and  un- 
certain, and  no  imagined  catastrophe  troubled 
ker  serenity.  It  was  all  the  will  of  the  Em- 
peror, and  it  was  well. 

Life  was  a  very  simple  matter  to  0  Sana  San. 
She  rose  when  the  sun  climbed  over  the  moun- 
tain, bathed  her  face  and  hands  in  the  shallow 
copper  basin  in  the  garden,  ate  her  breakfast 
of  bean-curd  and  pickled  fish  and  warm  yellow 
tea.  Then  she  hung  the  quilts  over  poles  to 
•un,  dusted  the  screens,  and  placed  an  offering 
of  rice  on  the  steps  of  the  tiny  shrine  to  Inari, 
where  the  little  foxes  kept  guard.  These  simple 
duties  being  accomplished,  she  tied  a  bit  of 
bean-cake  in  her  gaily  colored  handkerchief, 
and  stepping  into  her  geta,  went  pattering  off 
to  school. 

It  was  an  English  school,  where  she  sat  with 
kands  folded  through  the  long  mornings,  pas- 
sively permitting  the  lessons  to  filter  through 
her  brain,  and  listening  in  smiling  patience 
while  the  kind  foreign  ladies  spoke  incompre- 
kensible  things.  Sometimes  she  helped  pass  the 

211 


THE  SOUL  OF  O  SANA  SAN 

hours  by  watching  the  shadows  of  the  dancing 
leaves  outside;  sometimes  she  told  herself 
stories  about  "The  Old  Man  Who  Made  With- 
ered Trees  to  Blossom,"  or  about  "Momotaro, 
the  Little  Peach  Boy."  Again  she  would  re- 
peat the  strange  English  words  and  phrases  that 
she  heard,  and  would  puzzle  out  their  mean- 
ing. 

But  the  sum  of  her  lore  consisted  in  being 
happy;  and  when  the  shadow  of  the  mountains 
began  to  slip  across  the  valley,  she  would  dance 
back  along  the  homeward  way,  singing  with  the 
birds,  laughing  with  the  rippling  water,  and  add- 
ing her  share  of  brightness  to  the  sunshine  of 
the  world. 

As  she  stood  on  this  particular  morning  with 
her  net  poised  over  a  butterfly,  she  heard  the 
tramping  of  many  feet.  A  slow  cavalcade  was 
coming  around  the  road, — a  long  line  of  coolies 
bearing  bamboo  stretchers, — and  in  the  rear,  in 
a  jinrikisha,  was  a  foreign  man  with  a  red  cross 
on  his  sleeve. 

0  Sana  San  scrambled  up  the  bank  and 
watched  with  smiling  curiosity  as  the  men  halted 

212 


THE  SOUL  OF  0  SANA  SAN 

to  rest.  On  the  stretcher  nearest  her  lay  a 
young  Knssian  prisoner  with  the  fair  skin  and 
blond  hair  that  are  so  unfamiliar  to  Japanese 
eyes.  His  blanket  was  drawn  tight  around  his 
shoulders,  and  he  lay  very  still,  with  lips  set, 
gazing  straight  up  through  the  bamboo  leaves 
to  the  blue  beyond. 

Then  it  was  that  O  Sana  San,  gazing  in  frank 
inquisitiveness  at  the  soldier,  saw  a  strange 
thing  happen.  A  tear  formed  on  his  lashes  and 
trickled  slowly  across  his  temple ;  then  another 
and  another,  until  they  formed  a  tiny  rivulet. 
More  and  more  curious,  she  drew  yet  nearer, 
and  watched  the  tears  creep  unheeded  down  the 
man's  face.  She  was  sure  he  was  not  crying, 
because  soldiers  never  cry;  it  could  not  be  the 
pain,  because  his  face  was  very  smooth  and 
calm.  What  made  the  tears  drop,  drop  on  the 
hard  pillow,  and  why  did  he  not  brush  them 
away? 

A  vague  trouble  dawned  in  the  breast  of  O 
Sana  San.  Running  back  to  the  field,  she  gath- 
ered a  handful  of  wild  flowers  and  returned  to 
the  soldier.  The  tears  no  longer  fell,  but  his 

213 


THE  SOUL  OF  0  SANA  SAN 

lips  quivered  and  his  face  was  distorted  with 
pain.  She  looked  about  her  in  dismay.  The 
coolies  were  down  by  the  river,  drinking  from 
their  hands  and  calling  to  one  another ;  the  only 
person  to  whom  she  could  appeal  was  the  for- 
eigner with  the  red  cross  on  his  arm  who  was 
adjusting  a  bandage  for  a  patient  at  the  end  of 
the  line. 

With  halting  steps  and  many  misgivings,  she 
timidly  made  her  way  to  his  side ;  then  placing 
her  hands  on  her  knees,  she  bowed  low  before 
him.  The  embarrassment  of  speaking  to  a 
stranger  and  a  foreigner  almost  overwhelmed 
her,  but  she  mustered  her  bravest  array  of  Eng- 
lish, and  pointing  to  the  stretcher,  faltered  out 
her  message : 

'  *  Soldier  not  happy  very  much  is.  I  sink  sol- 
dier heart  sorry. ' ' 

The  Eed  Cross  orderly  looked  up  from  hi« 
work,  and  his  eyes  followed  her  gesture. 

"He  is  hurt  bad,"  he  said  shortly;  "no  legs, 
no  arms." 

"So — deska?"  she  said  politely,  then  repeated 
214 


THE  SOUL  OP  0  SANA  SAN 

kis  words  in  puzzled  incomprehension:  " No- 
warms  7  Nowarms?" 

When  she  returned  to  the  soldier  she  gath- 
ered up  the  flowers  which  she  had  dropped  by 
the  wayside,  and  timidly  offered  them  to  him. 
For  a  long  moment  she  waited,  then  her  smile 
faded  and  her  hand  dropped.  With  a  child's 
quick  sensitiveness  to  rebuff,  she  was  turning 
away  when  an  exclamation  recalled  her. 

The  prisoner  was  looking  at  her  in  a  strange, 
distressed  way;  his  deep-set  gray  eyes  glanced 
down  first  at  one  bandaged  shoulder,  then  at  the 
other,  then  he  shook  his  head. 

As  0  Sana  San  followed  his  glance,  a  startled 
look  of  comprehension  sprang  into  her  face. 
"Nowarms!"  she  repeated  softly  as  the  mean- 
ing dawned  upon  her,  then  with  a  little  cry  of 
sympathy  she  ran  forward  and  gently  laid  her 
flowers  on  his  breast. 

The  cavalcade  moved  on,  under  the  warm 
spring  sun,  over  the  smooth  white  road,  under 
the  arching  cryptomerias ;  but  little  0  Sana  San 
stood  with  her  butterfly  net  over  her  shoulder 

215 


THE  SOUL  OF  0  SANA  SAN 

and  watched  it  with  troubled  eyes.  A  dreadful 
something  was  stirring  in  her  breast,  something 
clutched  at  her  throat,  and  she  no  longer  saw  the 
sunshine  and  the  flowers.  Kneeling  by  the 
roadside,  she  loosened  the  little  basket  which 
was  tied  to  her  obi  and  gently  lifted  the  lid. 
Slowly  at  first,  and  then  with  eager  wings,  a 
dozen  captive  butterflies  fluttered  back  to  free- 
dom. 

Along  the  banks  of  the  Upper  Flowing  Eiver, 
in  a  rudely  improvised  hospital,  lay  the  wounded 
Eussian  prisoners.  To  one  of  the  small  rooms 
at  the  end  of  the  ward  reserved  for  fatally 
wounded  patients  a  self-appointed  nurse  came 
daily,  and  rendered  her  tiny  service  in  the  only 
way  she  knew. 

O  Sana  San's  heart  had  been  so  wrought 
upon  by  the  sad  plight  of  her  soldier  friend  that 
she  had  begged  to  be  taken  to  see  him  and  to  be 
allowed  to  carry  him  flowers  with  her  own  hand. 
Her  mother,  in  whom  smoldered  the  fires  of 
dead  samurai,  was  quick  to  be  gracious  to  a 
fallen  foe,  and  it  was  with  her  consent  that  O 

216 


THE  SOUL  OF  O  SANA  SAN 

Sana  San  went  day  after  day  to  the  hospitaL 
The  nurses  humored  her  childish  whim,  think- 
ing each  day  would  be  the  last ;  but  as  the  days 
grew  into  weeks  and  the  weeks  into  months,  her 
visits  became  a  matter  of  course. 

And  the  young  Russian,  lying  on  his  rack  of 
pain,  learned  to  watch  for  her  coming  as  the  one 
hour  of  brightness  in  an  interminable  night  of 
gloom.  He  made  a  sort  of  sun-dial  of  the  cracks 
in  the  floor,  and  when  the  shadows  reached  a 
certain  spot  his  tired  eyes  grew  eager,  and  he 
turned  his  head  to  listen  for  the  patter  of  the 
little  tabi  that  was  sure  to  sound  along  the  hall. 
Sometimes  she  would  bring  her  picture-books 
and  read  him  wonderful  stories  in  words  he  did 
not  understand,  and  show  him  the  pictures  of 
Momotaro,  who  was  born  out  of  a  peach  and 
who  grew  up  to  be  so  strong  and  brave  that  he 
went  to  the  Ogres'  Island  and  carried  off  all 
their  treasures, — caps  and  coats  that  made  their 
wearers  invisible,  jewels  which  made  the  tide 
come  or  go,  coral  and  amber  and  tortoise-shell, 
— and  all  these  things  the  little  Peach  Boy  took 
back  to  his  kind  old  foster  mother  and  father, 

217 


THE  SOUL  OF  0  SANA  SAN 

and  they  all  lived  happily  forever  after.  Amd 
in  the  telling  O  Sana  San's  voice  would  thrill, 
and  her  almond  eye§  grow  bright,  while  her 
slender  brown  finger  pointed  out  the  figures  on 
the  gaily  colored  pages. 

Sometimes  she  would  sing  to  him,  in  soft 
minor  strains,  of  the  beauty  of  the  snow  on  the 
pine-trees,  or  the  wonders  of  Fuji-San. 

And  he  would  pucker  his  white  lips  and  try 
to  whistle  the  accompaniment,  to  her  great 
amusement  and  delight. 

Many  were  the  treasures  she  brought  forth 
from  the  depths  of  her  long  sleeves,  and  many 
were  the  devices  she  contrived  to  amuse  him. 
The  most  ambitious  achievement  was  a  minia- 
ture garden  in  a  wooden  box — a  wonderful  gar- 
den where  grasses  stood  for  tall  bamboo,  and  a 
saucer  of  water,  surrounded  by  moss  and  peb- 
bles, made  a  shining  lake  across  which  a  bridge 
led  through  a  torii  to  a  diminutive  shrine  above. 

He  would  watch  her  deft  fingers  fashioning 
the  minute  objects,  and  listen  to  her  endless 
prattle  in  her  soft,  unknown  tongue,  and  for  a 
little  space  the  pain-racked  body  would  relax 

218 


THE  SOUL  OF  0  SANA  SAN 

and  the  cruel  furrows  vanish  from  between  his 
brows. 

But  there  were  days  in  which  the  story  and 
the  song  and  the  play  had  no  part.  At  such 
times  0  Sana  San  slipped  in  on  tiptoe  and  took 
her  place  at  the  head  of  the  cot  where  he  could 
not  see  her.  Sitting  on  her  heels,  with  hand 
folded  in  hand,  she  watched  patiently  for  hours, 
alert  to  adjust  the  covers  or  smooth  the  pillow, 
but  turni  ^  her  eyes  away  when  the  spasms  of 
pain  contorted  his  face.  All  the  latent  mater- 
nity in  the  child  rose  to  succor  his  helplessness. 
The  same  instinct  that  had  prompted  her  to 
strap  her  doll  upon  her  back  when  yet  a  mere 
baby  herself,  made  her  accept  the  burden  of  his 
suffering,  and  mother  him  with  a  very  passion 
of  tenderness. 

Longer  and  sultrier  grew  the  days;  the  wis- 
taria, hanging  in  feathery  festoons  from  many  a 
trellis,  gave  way  to  the  flaming  azalea,  and  the 
azalea  in  turn  vanished  with  the  coming  of  the 
lotus  that  floated  sleepily  in  the  old  castle  moat. 

Still  the  soul  of  the  young  Kussian  was  held  a 
prisoner  in  his  shattered  body,  and  the  spirit  in 

219 


THE  SOUL  OF  0  SANA  SAN 

him  grew  restive  at  the  delay.  Months  passed 
before  the  doctor  told  him  his  release  was  at 
hand.  It  was  early  in  the  morning,  and  the  sun 
fell  in  long,  level  rays  across  his  cot.  He  turned 
his  head  and  looked  wistfully  at  the  distance  it 
would  have  to  travel  before  it  would  be  after- 
noon. 

The  nurse  brought  the  screen  and  placed  it 
about  the  bed — the  last  service  she  could  ren- 
der. For  hours  the  end  was  expected,  but  mo- 
ment by  moment  he  held  death  at  bay,  refus- 
ing to  accept  the  freedom  that  he  so  earnestly 
longed  for.  At  noon  the  sky  became  overcast 
and  the  slow  falling  of  rain  was  heard  on  the 
low  wooden  roof.  But  still  his  fervent  eyes 
watched  the  sun-dial. 

At  last  the  sound  of  geta  was  heard  without, 
and  in  a  moment  O  Sana  San  slipped  past  the 
screen  and  dropped  on  her  knees  beside  him. 
Under  one  arm  was  tightly  held  a  small  white 
kitten,  her  final  offering  at  the  shrine  of  love. 

When  he  saw  her  quaint  little  figure,  a  look 
of  peace  came  over  his  face  and  he  closed  his 
eyes.  An  interpreter,  knowing  that  a  prisoner 

220 


THE  SOUL  OF  0  SANA  SAN 

was  about  to  die,  came  to  the  bedside  and  asked 
if  he  wanted  to  leave  any  message.  He  stirred 
slightly  then,  in  a  scarcely  audible  voice,  asked 
in  Russian  what  the  Japanese  word  was  for 
"good-by."  A  long  pause  followed,  during 
which  the  spirit  seemed  to  hover  irresolute  upon 
the  brink  of  eternity. 

O  Sana  San  sat  motionless,  her  lips  parted, 
her  face  full  of  the  awe  and  mystery  of  death. 
Presently  he  stirred  and  turned  his  head  slowly 
until  his  eyes  were  on  a  level  with  her  own. 

" Sayonara,"  he  whispered  faintly,  and  tried 
to  smile;  and  0  Sana  San,  summoning  all  her 
courage  to  restrain  the  tears,  smiled  bravely 
back  and  whispered,  ' '  Sayonara. ' ' 

It  was  scarcely  said  before  the  spirit  of  the 
prisoner  started  forth  upon  his  final  journey, 
but  he  went  not  alone.  The  soul  of  a  child  went 
with  him,  leaving  in  its  place  the  tender,  new- 
born soul  of  a  woman. 


221 


/   W     /  I^J 


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